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THE 


GIFT  OF  AFFECTION: 


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CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW-YEAR'S 

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NEW    YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  LEAVITT  &  ALLEN, 


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<    c        a        ft  • 


'  .  '•    «     *  »    *       »•  •  1      .  •   •  •    .    •    . 


CONTENTS 


Friendship,  .... 

The  Capucin, 

Grace  Brown,  .  •  • 
A  Slight  Comparison,  .  . 
Life's  Last  Flower,  .  .  . 
The  Village  Amanuensis, . 
The  Pawnee's  Ransom,  . 
To  a  Very  Young  House- 
wife,  ....  •  • 
The  Country  Tavern,  .  . 
"WTiite  Thome  Farm,    .    . 

The  Postman's  Knock, 

The  Welcome  Back,     .     . 

The  Dream, 

Forgive  and  Forget,      .    . 

Rich  and  Poor,    .    . 

Anticipation, 

Labor, 

The  Brighton  Coach,    .    . 

The  Stolen  Piece  of  Linen, 

Serenade, 

The  Change, 


Anonymous,    .     . 
Mrs  Romer,  . 
Mrs.  D.  Clarke^  . 
B.  Bernal,      .    . 
3Iiss  Savage,  . 
31.  R.  Mitford, 
Georgina  C.  Munro, 

Bernard  Barton,  . 
James  T.  Fields,  . 
Agnes  Strickland, 
Miss  Power,  .  . 
Eliza  Cook,  .  . 
Alex.  Baljjur,  Esq., 


Page 
11 

12 

25 

,    35 

.    36 

.    37 

52 

.  81 
.  83 
85 
.  11 
.  137 
.  138 


3Iartin  F.  Tupper,  Esq.,  139 
Anonymous,     .     . 
Mrs.  Embury, 
John  Patch,  Esq , 
Tlieodore  Hook,   . 
S.A.,    .... 
C.  P.  Houseman, 
Anonymous,     .    . 


141 

17 

172 

174 

203 

22S» 

223 


mG 


4 


,Q 


mi 


CONTENTS. 


The  Station,  an  Irish  Sketch, 

The  Guitar, 

The  Rustic  Toilet,  .  .  . 
The  Farewell,  .... 
The  Widow's  Daughter,  . 
The  Silent  Toast,  .  .  . 
The  Dead  Watch,     .     .     . 

Georgiana, 

The  Widow  of  Antwerp,  . 
A  Winter  Thought, .    .    . 


Thomas  Keightkj/,  Esq.,  224 
John  Patch,  Esq.,  .  .  242 
31.  R.  Mitford,  .  .  .244 
L.  E.  London,  .  .  .  267 
Eliza  Walker,  .  .  .270 
Alaric  A.  Watts,  .  .  286 
Elizabeth  Youatt,  .  .  287 
3Irs.  C.  W.  Hunt,  .    .  310 

Selected, 316 

Mrs.  Ahdy,         ,    .    .323 


)       >  J  > 


,  ^        :,  '     ■   J  ,  '      ■>     J  1  ' 


THE   GIFT. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

Friendship,  thou  gem  of  the  sea,  for  there 

Echoeth  thy  gladness  as  everywhere ! 

Thou  art  not  dependent  on  place  or  time, 

But  free  forever  in  every  clime : 

Let  the  billows  rage  in  their  loftiest  pride, — 

Say,  shall  their  waves  thee  from  thine  divide  ? 

Let  the  dreary  calm  spread  her  gloom  around, 

The  vessel  is  stopped ;  but  is  friendship  bound  ? 

Oh  !  wingeth  it  rather  its  ceaseless  flight 

To  the  scenes  of  day  from  the  clouds  of  night, 

Or  pauseth  a  while  o'er  some  valued  friend, 

Whose  hope  knows  no  sleeping,  whose  love  no 

end  ; 
But  yet,  though  given  to  wander  far. 
And  welcome  on  earth  as  the  morning  star, 
Thou  wilt  sometimes  hide  from  the  world's  cold 

gaze, 
Which  will  not  be  warmed  by  thy  gentle  rays : 
For  thou,  like  the  pearl  of  the  sea,  a  while 
Veiling  the  joyfulness  of  thy  smile. 
In  the  innermost  shrine  of  the  heart  dost  lie, 
Deep  in  the  depths  of  her  secrecy  ! 


<  t  « 

t! 


« <    « 
•••  • 


I  •  • 


•  •        • 

•  •  •  •  « 


THE    CAPUCIN 

BY    MRS.    ROMER. 


'What  is  he  whose  grief  bears  such  an  emphasis  V* 

Haulet. 


Religious  processions,  which  had  been  alto- 
gether suppressed  in  France  at  the  first  revolu- 
tion, and  had  been  reestablished  at  the  restora- 
tion of  the  Bourbons,  have  again  nearly  disap- 
peared. The  Corpus  Domini,  or  Fete  Dieu, 
which  was  observed  with  such  pomp  and  splen- 
dor in  Paris  during  the  reigns  of  Louis  the 
Eighteenth  and  Charles  the  Tenth,  and  which 
the  royal  family  attended  in  the  most  unbounded 
spirit  of  devotion,  is  never  now  heard  of  in  the 
capital,  and  if  at  all  observed  in  France,  it  is  only 
in  some  of  the  remote  southern  provinces,  where 
the  priesthood  still  hold  considerable  sway  over 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  the  people. 

Not  so  in  Italy.  Never  for  a  moment  has  the 
poetry  of  religion  lost  its  empire  over  the  imagi- 
nations of  the  Italians;  and  even  where  its 
sacred  precepts  do  not  reach  the  heart  or  influ- 
ence  the   actions,  its   outward   ceremonies   are 


THE    CAPUCIN.  13 

scrupulously  observed.  Thus  the  most  reckless 
and  rapacious  bandit  will  prostrate  himself  at  the 
sound  of  the  Angelus,  and  with  sanctified  fer^'or 
kneel  down  should  a  procession  bearing  the  via- 
ticum to  some  departing  spirit  cross  his  path, 
even  though  that  path  is  leading  him  to  plunder 
and  violence  —  the  hand  with  which  he  had 
crossed  himself  with  pious  devotion  would  in  the 
next  moment,  without  scruple,  resume  its  merci- 
less hold  of  the  assassin's  dagger. 

On  my  way  from  Rome  to  Venice,  in  the  year 
IS — ,  I  arrived  at  Ravenna  on  the  day  of  the 
Fete  Dieu,  and.  although  my  only  m.otive  for 
haltino-  there  had  been  to  visit  Dante's  tomb,  and 
the  "  haunted  wood,"  which  was  the  theatre  of 
Drj^den's  spectral  hunt,  I  was  mduced  to  join  the 
throng  in  the  streets  in  order  to  witness  the  fun- 
zione,  which  is  there  enacted  with  a  magnifi- 
cence that  characterizes  all  sacred  ceremonies 
throughout  the  papal  dominions.  Military  pomp 
lends  its  aid  to  heighten  the  effect  of  religious 
enthusiasm;  the  streets  are  lined  with  troops, 
and  as  the  procession  passes  through  them,  the 
soldiers  kneel  down  and  present  arms.  It  must 
be  owned  that  the  soldiers  of  the  pope  are  not 
remarkable  for  their  military  appearance ;  but  at 
the  period  to  which  I  allude,  the  legations  were 
occupied  by  Austrian  troops,  and  the  martial 
aspect  of  the  Hungarian  grenadiers,  who  look  aa 
2 


14  THE    CAPUCIN. 

if  they  had  come  into  the  world  ready  drilled 
and  accoutred,  made  up  for  the  deficiencies  of  his 
holiness'  armed  force.  The  cardinal  legate,  the 
archbishop  of  Ravenna,  and  innumerable  monsi- 
gnori,  prelati,  and  ecclesiastics  of  all  grades, 
walked  bareheaded  in  the  procession,  which, 
commencing  at  the  domo  or  cathedral,  wound 
through  all  the  principal  streets,  and  after  about 
three  hours'  circuit,  again  returned  to  the  metro- 
politan church,  having  in  its  passage  made  pauses 
at  the  various  7'eposoirs,  or  temporary  altars, 
which  had  been  set  up  in  prominent  parts  of  the 
different  parishes,  in  order  to  receive  the  homage 
of  the  parochial  clergy,  who  there  joined  the  pro- 
cession, and  proceeded  with  it  to  the  cathedral. 

I  had  taken  up  my  position  under  the  portico 
of  one  of  those  vast  palaces  with  which  Ravenna 
abounds,  and  whose  splendors  recall  its  ancient 
importance,  and  contrast  so  forcibly  with  its  pres- 
ent decayed  and  deserted  appearance. 

The  spot  where  I  stood  was  immediately  oppo- 
site to  one  of  the  altars,  where  a  temporary  halt 
was  made,  so  that  I  was  enabled  to  see  the  cere- 
mony in  all  its  details,  and  to  notice  the  remark- 
able individuals  and  various  confraternities  of 
which  it  was  composed.  Amongst  the  almost 
mterminable  line  of  mendicant  friars,  who  walked 
two  and  two,  their  arms  crossed  and  their  heads 
sunk  upon  their  bosom,  my  attention  was  sud* 


THE    CAPUCIN.  15 

denly  arrested  by  one  among  them,  who,  altliougri 
wearing  the  coarse  brown  habit  of  his  order,  the 
sandals  and  the  simple  cord  for  a  girdle,  differed 
as  completely  from  the  rest  of  his  brethren  in  air 
and  appearance,  as  though  he  had  been  dressed 
in  the  garb  of  fashion.     Unlike  the   slouching 
figures  and  unwashed   faces  among  which   he 
mmgled,  his  form  was  tall  and  erect,  his  counte- 
nance of  a  noble  and  delicate  caste  of  beauty, 
and  his  hands   of  that  aristocratical   form   and 
color,  which  are  one  of  the  few  unerring  eviden- 
ces of  gentle  blood.     In  short,  there  was  a  dis 
tinction  in  his  whole  person  and  air  in  strange 
discordance  with  the  Capucin  habit  worn  by  him 
.—a  habit  which  is  invariably  the  badge  of  all 
that  is  most  squalid  and  unclean,  and  (if  such  an 
expression  may  be  applied)  most  plebeian  among 
religious  confraternities. 

The  palace  under  the  portico  of  which  I  had 
placed  myself,  differed  from  every  other  mansion 
in  that  street,  inasmuch  as  that  its  windows  were 
closed,  and  that  none  of  those  gawdy  draperies, 
which  on  similar  occasions  are  usually  displayed 
even  in  the  humblest  habitations,  were  suspended 
from  its  deserted  balconies.  When  th-e  young 
Capaucin  paused  before  the  altar  opposite  to  it, 
he  cast  a  furtive  glance  towards  the  desolate  pile, 
and  the  livid  hue  that  suddenly  overspread  his 
countenance  betrayed  the  fierce  internal  emotion 


i6  THE    CAPUCIN. 

which  its  aspect  had  called  forth.  At  the  samfc 
moment  a  voice,  proceeding  from  behind  me, 
struck  me  by  the  melancholy  interest  with  which 
it  pronounced  the  words,  "  Povero  Damaso!" 
and  on  turning  round  I  observed  that  the  speak- 
er's eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  young  friar  who 
had  so  forcibly  arrested  my  own  attention.  Ad- 
dressing a  lady  who  was  leaning  on  his  arm,  he 
continued — "Alas!  what  a  melancholy  contrast 
does  his  situation  now  exhibit  to  that  in  which 
we  beheld  him  last  year  at  this  ceremony,  when, 
in  all  the  pride  of  youth  and  birth  and  station,  he 
stood  in  that  balcony  by  the  side  of  the  object  of 
his  love,  in  the  security  of  privileged  and  requi- 
ted affection  !  Who  could  have  foreseen  before 
a  year  expired  he  would  have  exchanged  the 
palace  of  his  noble  ancestors  for  a  Capucin'? 
cell  ? " 

I  felt  so  convinced  that  the  foregoing  word? 
referred  to  the  identical  person  upon  whom  my 
own  attention  was  fixed,  that  I  could  not  repress* 
an  impulse  of  curiosity,  which  induced  me  to 
inquire  of  the  young  man  who  had  uttered  them- 
whether  the  melancholy-looking  Capucin  was  the 
subject  of  his  observations,  and  whether  his  hav- 
mg  assumed  the  monastic  habit  was  the  result  of 
any  misfortune. 

He  replied  that  my  conjectures  were  right,  and 
that  the  history  of  the  Capucin  involved  a  calum' 


THE    CAPUCIN.  17 

ity  that  was  known  to  all  Ravenna,  but  which 
could  possess  but  little  interest  for  those  who 
were  strangers  to  the  persons  most  painfully  con- 
nected with  it. 

"  I  think  you  said  his  name  was  Damaso  ? "  I 
observed,  in  the  hope  that  I  might  imperceptibly 
lead  him  on  to  a  recital  which -had  considerably 
stimulated  my  curiosity. 

"  Yes,  the  Marquis  Damaso  P ,  one  of  the 

noblest  and  richest  individuals  in  Ravenna,  now 
Fra  Damaso,  of  the  poorest  order  of  mendicant 
friars." 

"  What  could  have  determined  so  extraordi- 
nary a  vocation  ? "  I  inquired. 

"  Love  and  jealousy,"  he  answered.  "  Have 
you  noticed  the  palace  before  which  we  are 
standing,  with  its  closed  windows  and  deserted 
balconies?      It  is  the  paternal  mansion  of  the 

Contessina   Olimpia   M ,  one   of  the   most 

charming  persons  in  Ravenna,  beautiful  enough 
to  be  remarked  wherever  she  went,  and  yet  gen- 
tle and  unpretending,  as  though  unconscious  of 
her  superiority  over  all  others.  Often  have  I 
paused  to  observe  her  standing  in  that  balcony, 
in  the  midst  of  the  flowers  that  filled  it,  herself 
the  fairest  flower  of  all;  and  but  a  few  days 
before  the  catastrophe,  which  I  am  about  to 
relate,  I  saw  her  there  with  the  Marquis  Da- 
maso, then  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  the  happiest  of 
2=^ 


18  THE    CAPUCIN. 

the  happy,  for  he  was  at  the  summit  of  his  hopes 
and  wishes,  he  was  the  betrothed  lover  of  the 
beautiful  Contessina  Olimpia. 

"  Damaso's  love  was  like  that  of  a  madman, 
for  although  certain  of  his  passion  being  returned, 
he  was  jealous  of  all  who  looked  upon  Olimpia, 
and  would  even  have  wished  that  every  one  but 
himself  could  have  been  blind  to  her  perfections. 
He  feared  a  rival  in  every  casual  acquaintance 
that  approached  her,  and  his  distrust  occasion- 
ally assumed  so  violent  a  character  that  Count 

M ,  fearing   that   his  daughter's   happiness 

would  be  compromised  by  this  infirmity  of  dispo- 
sition, hesitated  to  give  his  consent  to  the  mar- 
riage. The  young  lady  herself,  however,  only 
laughed  at  the  jealous  fancies  of  her  lover,  and, 
instead  of  being  offended  by  them,  looked  upon 
them  as  evidences  of  his  all-engrossing  passion, 
nor  appeared  to  apprehend  that  the  susceptibility 
which  was  to  a  certain  degree  gratifying  in  the 
lover,  would  become  intolerable  in  the  husband. 

"  It  appears  that  Damaso  having  one  day  ab- 
sented himself  from  Ravenna  to  go  to  a  villa  at 
some  leagues  distance,  returned  late  in  the  even- 
ing, but  not  too  late  to  repair  to  the  palazzo 

M .     As  he  approached  it  from  the  opposite 

street,  he  beheld  his  betrothed  advance  to  the 
window,  pluck  one  of  the  roses  that  clustered 
around  it,  and  after  gazing  forth  for  a  moment, 


THE    CAPUCm.  19 

retreat.  Quickening  his  steps,  he  reached  the 
window  she  had  just  left,  and  saw  her  seated  on 
the  sofa  of  her  boudoir,  while  a  young  man,  who 
occupied  a  place  by  her  side,  familiarly  held  both 
her  hands  clasped  in  one  of  his,  while  the  other 
held  the  flower  she  had  so  lately  gathered. 

"  At  this  sight  Damaso  stood  transfixed  to  the 
spot,  as  though  he  had  been  changed  into  a 
statue  of  stone,  his  eyes  fascinated  towards  the 
fatal  window.  The  young  lady  rose,  spoke  with 
great  animation  for  a  few  moments  to  the  young 
man,  then  embraced  him  tenderly,  and  disap- 
peared. In  a"  few  seconds  the  lamps  of  the 
boudoir  were  extinguished,  and  almost  in  the 
same  instant  Damaso  saw  the  young  man,  who 
had  been  the  companion  of  Olimpia,  and  the 
object  of  her  endearments,  issue  from  the  gate  of 
the  palazzo,  pass  before  him,  and  turn  round  the 
corner  into  the  next  street.  The  Marquis  Da- 
maso, who  had  hitherto  been  paralyzed  by  emo 
tion,  suddenly  recovered  his  powers  of  volition, 
and  rushing,  like  a  maniac,  after  the  unknown, 
he  speedily  overtook  him. 

"  '  Stop  ! '  he  cried,  grasping  him  by  the  collar. 

"  The  young  man  immediately  paused. 

"  '  Wretch  ! '  continued  Damaso,  '  defend  your- 
self ! '  and  carried  away  by  the  vehemence  of  his 
passion  he  shook  him  violently. 

"  The    youth,   astonished    at    this    unforeseen 


20        •  THE    CAPUCIN. 

attack,  started  back,  and  drawing  from  his  bosom 
a  knife  which  he  carried  there,  called  upon  Da- 
maso  to  unhand  him,  or  that  he  would  not  be 
answerable  for  the  consequences.  But  Damaso's 
only  answer  was  a  renewed  attack,  in  which  he 
contrived  to  make  himself  master  of  the  weapon, 
and  in  the  struggle  that  ensued  for  its  recovery, 
its  ill-fated  owner  received  a  wound  which 
stretched  him  lifeless  at  the  feet  of  Damaso. 

"  The  murderer,  suddenly  recalled  to  his 
senses  by  the  fatal  termination  of  the  affray, 
stooped  down,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  the  heart 
of  his  victim,  ascertained  that  its  pulsations  had 
ceased  forever ;  but  at  that  moment  the  sound  of 
approaching  footsteps  warned  him  to  think  of  his 
own  safety,  and  hastily  rising  he  fled  from  the 
scene. 

"  Scarcely  had  he  proceeded  two  hundred 
paces  ere  he  began  to  reflect  coolly  upon  all  that 
had  happened.  He  did  not  regret  the  deed,  for  it 
was  a  rival — a  beloved  rival  —  whom  he  had 
destroyed  ;  but  he  felt  assured  that  on  the  mor- 
row all  Ravenna  would  be  ringing  with  the  event, 
and  he  felt  the  necessity  of  averting  suspicion 
from  himself.  As  it  was  known  that  he  had  left 
the  city  early  in  the  morning  to  proceed  to  his 
country-house,  he  repaired  immediately  to  his 
palace,  and  desiring  his  servant  who  admitted 
him  not  to  mention  to  any  person  his  momentary 


THE    CAPUCIN.  2] 

return  to  Ravenna,  he  caused  his  fleetest  horse 
to  be  saddled,  and  immediately  retraced  his  steps 
to  the  Villa,  where  he  remained  three  days, 
which,  to  his  disturbed  and  anxious  mind,  ap- 
peared three  mortal  ages. 

"  AVTien  the  Marquis  Damaso  felt  that  he  was 
sufficiently  master  of  himself  to  allow  no  traces 
to  appear  in  his  countenance  of  that  which  was 
passing  within  his  mind,  he  ventured  to  Ravenna, 
and  determined,  notwithstanding  the  terrible 
emotion  that  must  assail  him,  to  go  to  the  house 
of  Count  M ,  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. It  was-  a  trial  which  required  all  his 
courage  to  encounter,  for  how  could  he  find  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  Olimpia  without  betraying 
the  indignation  with  which  her  supposed  perfidy 
had  filled  him  ?  He  nerved  himself  for  the  meet- 
ing, however,  and  repaired  to  the  Palazzo  M 

"  Damaso  found  the  whole  household  in  con- 
sternation, tears  were  in  every  eye,  grief  im- 
printed upon  every  countenance,  but  he  was  too 
much  absorbed  in  his  own  emotions  to  inquire 
the  reason  ;  and  hurrying  up  the  staircase,  en- 
tered the  private  apartment  of  the  Count.  There 
he  found  the  father  and  daughter  seated  together, 
clad  in  the  deepest  mourning ;  an  expression  of 
profound  sorrow  had  overcast  their  countenances, 
and  traces  of  tears  were  still  wet  upon  their 
cheeks.      Damaso  stopped  upon  ths  threshold. 


22  THE    CAPUCIN. 

unnerved  by  the  picture  of  woe  that  met  his 
eyes,  and  a  dreadful  presentiment  caused  the 
blood  to  freeze  in  his  veins.  The  mourners 
were  too  deeply  absorbed  in  their  grief  to  be 
aware  of  his  approach,  and  for  the  moment  he 
dared  neither  to  advance  nor  to  speak,  such  was 
the  mysterious  dread  that  assailed  him ;  at  last, 
unable  to  endure  a  further  suspense,  he  uttered 
in  tremblinof  accents — 'In  the  name  of  Heaven 
what  has  happened  ? ' 

"  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Olimpia,  without 
changing  her  position,  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 
The  Count  alone  raised  his  head,  and,  in  a  voice 
broken  by  emotion,  said — '  Damaso,  the  ways  of 
God  are  inscrutable,  but  most  cruel  sometimes, 
and  hard  to  bear.' 

"  Damaso  scarcely  breathed,  while  the  old  gen- 
tleman, beckoning  him  to  seat  himself  by  his 
side,  continued — '  You  are  aware,  my  dear 
friend,  that  I  have  been  separated  from  my  son 
for  the  last  four  years  ;  I  have  too  often  spoken 
to  you  of  the  unhappy  difference  of  opinion  that 
existed  between  us,  and  which  had  induced  him 
to  leave  home  and  become  a  traveller  in  foreign 
countries.  My  poor  son  !  suddenly,  and  without 
having  apprized  us,  he  arrived  here  three  days 
ago  —  the  very  day  on  which  you  went  into  the 
country;  weary  of  living  amongst  strangers 
he  came  to  «;9ek  a  reconciliation  with  me,  and 


THE   CAPUCIN.  23 

to  fix  himself  once  more  in  his  native  city,  and 
that  very  night,  as  he  left  my  house,  he  was 
murdered  in  the  street !  My  son,  my  dear  son, 
fell  by  the  hand  of  an  unknown  assassin ! '  and 
the  unfortunate  father,  overcome  by  the  dreadful 
words  he  had  uttered,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  You  can,  perhaps,  imagine  what  passed  in. 
the  head  and  heart  of  Damaso  after  this  revela- 
tion had  been  made  to  him,  but  words  would  be 
inadequate  to  express  the  desolation  and  despair 
that  assailed  him,  for,  notwithstanding  the  vio- 
lence of  his  character,  he  possessed  a  noble  and 
generous  soul. 

"  '  Your  son,'  he  exclaimed,  '  your  son — mur- 
aered— three  days  ago.  Oh  God!  oh  God!' 
and,  with  hands  wildly  clasped  together,  he  sank 
to  the  ground  upon  his  knees. 

"  The  count  stretched  out  his  hand  to  him, 
for,  little  suspecting  the  part  which  Damaso  had 
taken  in  the  dreadful  tragedy,  he  felt  grateful  to 
him  for  the  sympathy  he  evinced  in  his  sorrow. 
But  the  unhappy  Damaso  dared  not  touch  the 
hand  that  was  tendered  to  him ;  and  rising,  with- 
out venturing  to  turn  his  ej^es  towards  Olimpia 
or  her  father,  he  rushed  trom  the  room,  noi 
stopped  until  he  reached  his  own  dwelling,  where 
he  shut  himself  up  and  forbade  any  of  his  house- 
hold to  approach  him. 


24  THE    CAPUCIN. 

"  The  next  day  Count  M received  a  letter 

containing  these  words : 

"  *  We  have  met  for  the  last  time,  nor  will  this 
announcement  astonish  you  when  you  hear  that 
my  fatal  jealousy  has  caused  all  your  anguish 
and  all  your  despair  ;  that  I,  the  guilty  and  mis- 
taken Damaso,  am  the  murderer  of  your  son. 
Death,  which  ends  all  sufferings,  would  be  too 
great  a  boon  for  so  very  a  wretch  as  I  have 
become.  I  shall  live  to  expiate  in  tears  and 
remorse  the  crime  into  which  I  was  hurried  by 
my  blind,  ungovernable  passions.  May  God 
pity  and  pardon  the  wretched  Damaso  P .' 

"  On  the  same  day  he  entered  a  convent  of 
mendicant  friars,  and,  during  the  year  of  his  no- 
viciate, which  has  just  expired,  he  has  never 
been  seen  beyond  its  walls.  Some  of  his  friends 
have  endeavored  to  obtain  an  interview  with  him, 
but  without  success ;  his  days  are  spent  in  the 
most  rigid  observances  of  his  religious  duties, 
and  his  nights  in  acts  of  the  severest  penance. 

"  This  is  the  first  time  he  has  been  seen  since 
the  horrible  event  which  has  caused  his  seclusion 
from  the  world,  and  so  much  is  he  changed  by 
all  that  he  has  suffered,  that  I  had  at  first  some 
difficulty  in  recognizing  him." 

"And  Count  M ■,"  I  inquired,  "and  the 

Contessina  Olimpia?" 

"  They  quitted  Ravenna  at  the  period  of  the  fatal 
discovery,  and  have  never  since  returned  home." 


25 


GRACE   BROWN. 

A  SKETCH  FOR  MOTHERS  AND  DAUGHTERS. 


BY    MRS.    D.    CLARKE 


Grace  Brown  was  the  pet  of  the  village  — 
pretty,  lively,  and,  like  all  other  pets,  very  self- 
willed  ;  but  the  effects  of  this  latter  quality  were 
softened  down  and  rendered  quite  loveable  by  her 
open,  generous  disposition,  which  would  not  al- 
low her  to  injure  another,  even  to  gratify  that 
ruling  passion.     Some  said  that  Grace  thought 
herself    sufficiently   handsome,   and    termed    it 
vanity.      True,   perhaps,   when    each    Sabbath 
morning  found  her  ready  decked  for  the  sunny 
walk  to  the  parish  church  on  the  hill-side,  or  the 
week  day's  evening  saw  her  in  her  little  chamber 
window  plying  her  needle— yes,  perhaps  then, 
as  she  caught  a  side-long  glance  at  herself  in  the 
little  mirror,  she  might  think   it  no  such  great 
wonder  that  the  young  men  gazed  as  they  passed 
her,  or  that  they  looked  so  curiously  at  the  bow- 
pots  and  flowering  geraniums  perched  on  the  sill 
of  her  casement— perhaps,  too,  she  might  think 
they  cast  a  glance  beyond.     But  was  this  vanity? 
No ;  Grace  was  as  free  of  that  hateful  quality  as 
3 


26  GRACE    BROWN. 

the  bird  which  carolled  so  joyously  in  his  brighi 
cage  on  the  cottage  wall.  Vanity  cannot  be  just  y 
attributed  to  those  who  are  only  conscious  of  pos- 
sessing the  qualities  which  are  theirs  in  reality, 
but  to  those  alone  who  boast  to  themselves  of  per- 
fections which  they  can  never  hope  to  possess. 
Such  was  the  case  with  those  who  termed  Grace 

vain. 

One  fine  autumn  evemng  she  sat,  as  usual,  be- 
side her  geraniums,  over  which  was  hung  her 
little  bird  Pet ;  but  the  leaves  of  the  former  hung 
droopingly,  as  though  to  ask  of  their  sweet  mis- 
tress the  usual  drop  of  spring  water,  and  poor 
Pet  chirruped  and  hopped  from  perch  to  perch, 
and  ruffled  his  yellow  feathers  to  attract  her  at- 
tention, but  in  vain.     No  cooling  drop  greeted  the 
sickly  leaf — no  tiny  fingers  placed  a  bit  of  sugar 
between  Pet's  cage  wires.     And  how  was  this  ? 
Was  Grace  ill?     No;   but  her   thoughts    were 
wandering,  and  although  her  eyes  were  fixed  full 
on  poor  Pet  and  his  companion  plants,  she  neither 
saw  one  nor  the  other.     And  whither  were  her 
thoughts  Avandering?     Only  into  a  neighboring 
lane,  up  which  she  strolled  when  the  sun  was 
beginning  to  dip  his  bright  head  beneath  the  bhie 
tops  of  the  neighboring  hill.     It  was  a  very  plea- 
sant lane,  but  as  its  sides  were  bounded  by  high 
hawthorn  and  wild  rose-bushes,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed Grace  did  not  go  there  for  the  sake  of  any 


i-njiBJS 


(^t^cl'C^^. 


GRACE    BROWN. 


27 


beautiful  prospect,  for  her  whole  height  was  not 
more  than  the  top  of  the  banks  on  which  the 
bushes  grew.  For  what,  then,  could  it  be  ?  In 
truth  it  was  that  there  generally  accompanied  lier 
thither  a  very  pleasant  companion — not  her  mo- 
ther— not  one  of  the  neighbors'  daughters.  No  : 
but  a  young  man,  the  son  of  a  farmer  not  far 

distant. 

Yes,  the  truth  may  as  well  be  told.     Grace 
had  given,  or  thought  she  had  given,  her  little 
heart  to  this  companion  of  her  strolls ;   and,  in- 
deed, any  one,  to  look  on  him,  might  imagine  a 
better  choice  could  hot  be  made.    Tall,  handsome, 
and  athletic  he  was,  and  his  eye  beamed  when  he 
looked  on  her.     But  they  who  knew  him  better 
than  Grace,  said   that  he  was  wild  and   fickle. 
Neither  did   they  scruple    to  warn   her  of  that 
knowledge.     But  Grace  would  not  believe.    How 
could  she,  when   she   saw  that,  although   they 
spoke  against  him,  they  were   always  ready  to 
welcome  him  to   their   own   homes  ?     Besides, 
there  was  an  eloquence  far  more  powerful  to  the 
heart   and  understanding  of  Grace— more  elo- 
quent,  more    easily   believed   than    aught   they 
could  utter.     Yes,  tiie  eye  and  tongue  of  William 
Clivcly  were  the  monitors  most  eagerly  sought, 
and  most  willingly  listened  to  when  found.    How 
could  she  think  he  was  deceiving  her  ?     There 
W9S  UP  f?lsehood  in  his  deep  gaze  on  her — no 


28  GRACE    BROWP(r. 

harshness  in  his  soft  voice.  But  there  was  one 
who  did  not  like  him,  to  whom  Grace  had  ever 
yet  heen  accustomed  to  pay  the  most  profound 
submission,  because  that  humility  had  never  been 
forced,  but  ever  won  from  her  by  love.  That 
beins:  was  her  mother ! 

She  had  now  been  sitting  in  this  deep  reverie 
some  ten  minutes,  from  which  she  was  roused  by 
a  licfht  hand  beinof  laid  on  her  shoulder.  The 
blood  mounted  to  her  temples  and  cheek,  for  she 
knew,  v/ithout  raising  her  eyes,  that  it  was  her 
mother,  and  she  felt  conscious  that  that  mother's 
eye  was  reading  her  innermost  heart.  She  also 
knew  that  she  had  nought  to  fear,  for  though  at 
this  moment  her  little  heart  had  been  rebelling, 
her  parent's  chiding  was  ever  one  of  gentleness. 

"  Grace,  love,"  spoke  the  mother,  gently  plac- 
ing her  hand  on  the  half  downcast  head,  "  why 
do  you  not  go  forth  this  evening?  See,  the  sun 
has  almost  lost  his  last  bit  of  crimson  in  the  deep 
gre^.  Come,  love;  you  have  been  sewing  all 
day.  Just  throw  your  scarf  around  you  and  walk 
in  our  garden." 

"  I  would  rather  not,  mamma,"  answered 
Grace  in  a  low  tone,  turning  her  head  still  more 
from  her  parent,  and  then,  for  the  first  time, 
casting  her  eyes  on  the  drooping  plants  and  now 
Bulky  little  Pet.    But  she  quickly  addea,  "  I  wil 


GRACE    BROWN.  29 

water  my  trees  and  chirrup  to  Pet  a  little,  for  he 
seems  quite  to  have  the  mopes." 

"  And  how  comes  it  that  he  has  the  mopes, 
love  ?  "  again  spoke  her  mamma. 

"  Ah  !  I  see,  mamma,"  returned  the  now  half- 
tearful,  half-smiling  maiden ;  "  I  see  you  have 
been  reading  my  heart,  and  that  it  is  useless  to 
keep  anything  from  you.  But  though  j^ou  have 
seen  part  that  was  passing  there,  you  cannot  tell 
all ! " 

"  But  I  can  guess,  Grace  ;  and  that,  perchance, 
will  do  as  well.  I  doubt  not  you  thought  me 
very  cruel  —  very  inconsiderate  in  not  allowing 
you  to  have  quite  your  own  way ;  and  I  doubt 
not  that  yoir  thought  I  knew  very  little  about  it ; 
but  sit  do"wn,  love,  and  I  will  tell  you  a  little  pas- 
sage in  my  own  life,  and  after  that  1  shall  leave 
you  to  judge  for  yourself,  only  first  assuring  you 
that  I  have  every  proof  that  William  Clively  is 
very  wild,  and  his  father  quite  unable  to  support 
him  in  his  present  extravagance.  See  here,  love, 
I  have  brought  my  knitting ;  so  take  up  your 
work  from  the  window  sill,  and  thus,  while  we 
are  quite  industrious,  I  will  proceed  to  tell  you 
that  my  sketch  commences  when  I  was  about  a 
twelvemonth  older  than  you  are  now\  At  that 
time,  Grace,  I  was  circumstanced,  too,  somewhat 
as  you  are.  You  understand  me  love  ? "  Grace 
blushed  and  smiled.  "  I  had  a  rebellious  heart. 
3# 


30  GRACE    BROWN. 

too ;  and  there  was  one  for  whom  it  was  rebels 
lious — one  whom  it  had  set  up  as  the  idol  of  its 
idolatry,  and  one  whom,  unfortunately,  neither  of 
my  parents  approved.  But  yet,  Grace,  I  own 
that  I  thought  my  knowledge  of  his  habits  far 
exceeded  theirs ;  and  all  I  knev/  of  him  was  fair 
and  open.  Things  continued  thus  for  above 
eighteen  months,  at  the  end  of  which  time  my 
eyes  were  fearfully  opened  to  his  vices  —  he  com- 
mitted a  forgery  and  absconded;  though  it  is 
probable,  had  he  staid,  no  injury  would  have 
awaited  him,  for  his  friends,  who  were  wealthy 
and  powerful,  made  up  the  sum  for  which  he  had 
risked  so  much,  and  paid  it.  Grace,  it  was  some 
time,  even  then,  before  I  could  perfectly  win  my 
heart  from  its  idolatry ;  but  it  had  seen  its  error, 
and  my  mind  was  made  up  to  overcome  such 
perversity,  and  I  did.  Yes,  Grace  ;  I  knew  what 
it  was  to  feel  cherished  affections  warring  against 
my  own  convictions  of  right.  You  will  perhaps 
say  that  he  had  deserted  me,  and  it  might  be  that 
pride  rose  superior  to  neglect  and  slight ;  but  not 
so.  He  did  not  desert  me — he  did  not  slight 
me ;  for  though  all  others  were  ignorant  of  his 
destination,  I  knew  whither  he  had  fled,  and 
from  thence  received  a  letter  full  of  affection  and 
repentance  for  past  follies.  But,  Grace,  had  I 
forgiven,  or  rather  overlooked  his  vice,  (for  I  did 
forgive,)  I  never  could  have  placed  confidence  in 


GRACE    BROWN.  31 

him  again ;  sol  wrote  him  once,  but  that  once 
was  to  discard  him  forever.  From  that  time  I 
busied  myself  in  work,  in  tending  my  garden,  in 
assisting  my  neighbors,  and,  indeed,  in  various 
ways  of  which  I  had  not  thought  before.  I  saw 
that  people  approved  my  conduct,  too ;  every  eye 
greeted  me,  every  tongue  welcomed  me  in  joy- 
ous tones  ;  and  in  time  my  own  heart  grew  joy- 
ous, and  felt  a  lightness  it  had  never  known  till 
then,  even  in  its  wildest  moments  of  affection  for 
the  now  unworthy.  But  I  did  not  know  the  ful- 
ness of  the  happiness  I  was  to  reap  from  that  one 
era  of  my  life  till  five  years  had  elapsed.  Dur- 
ing that  period,  love,  your  dear  father  had  wooed 
me,  and  knowing  from  all  that  he  was  beloved 
and  respected,  he  won  me,  although  not  a  fiftieth 
part  so  handsome  or  engaging  in  his  manner  as 
he  of  whom  I  have  been  speaking.  But  he  soon 
taught  me  to  love  him — I  do  not  mean  with  the 
girlish  wildness  I  had  loved  before — but  with  an 
affection  which  might  last  through  sorrow,  sick- 
ness, death  !  as  it  has  done,  dear  Grace  ! " 

The  tears  started  to  the  sweet  eyes  of  Grace, 
and  fell  thickly  upon  the  little  border  on  which 
she  was  so  busily  plying  her  needle,  as  the 
thought  of  her  fond  father  passed  across  her 
heart,  and  smote  it  for  its  rebellion  against  her 
will  to  whose  care  he  had  so  solemnly  entrusted 


32  GRACE    BROWN. 

her  on   his   death-bed.     The   mother  was   also 
silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"  Well,  love,"  she  at  length  resumed,  "  you 
were  but  a  few  months  old  when,  one  day,  I  was 
sitting  with  you  in  a  small  arbor  in  the  o-arden 
of  the  dwelling  where  we  then  resided.  On  a 
sudden  I  heard  the  latch  of  the  garden  gate 
raised,  and  a  poor  emaciated  looking  man  toiled 
up  the  sunny  walk.  He  appeared  in  the  last 
stage  of  wretchedness,  and  sickness  seemed  to 
add  its  heavy  load  of  miser}?-  where  there  already 
appeared  to  be  an  accumulation  of  ills.  I  rose 
with  an  intention  of  inquiring  into  his  condition, 
and  relieving  him  as  far  as  my  means  would 
permit ;  and,  taking  you  in  my  arms,  I  stood  be- 
fore him.  But,  Grace,  I  suppose  that  time  had 
not  so  changed  me  as  it  had  done  him,  for  he 
instantly  ejaculated  my  maiden  name !  Yes, 
love,  you  may  well  drop  your  work  and  raise 
your  eyes.  It  v/as  indeed  he  whom  I  had  ioved, 
and  persisted  in  loving,  in  opposition  to  my 
parents'  judgment.  At  that  moment  your  father 
appeared  at  the  door,  and  when  I  looked  on  you 
and  him,  contrasted  with  the  wretched  mass  of 
filth  that  shrunk  before  me,  my  heart  leaped  with 
gratitude  to  God  for  teaching-  me  to  subdue  my 
own  evil  passions.  Your  father  had  known,  be- 
fore our  marriage,  all  the  circumstances  concern- 
ing him  and  myself,  so  that  a  few  words  made 


GRACE    BROWN.  33 

known  *o  >  im  the  cause  of  the  surprise  pictured 
m  both  ouf  countenances ;   and  to  make  me  love 
and   rer^rence   him  still  more,  that   good   man 
relieved  his  present  wants  and  f  rovided  for  his 
future  ones.     Yes,  Grace,  your  father  fed,  clothed, 
snd  lodged  that  repentant  creature  in  a  neighbor- 
'oo-  cottasre  till  he  recovered  health  and  strength 
—nay,  more,  he  concealed   his  name  from   all 
inquiring  ears,  and  not  an  eye  which  had  once 
known  could  now  recognize  George  May  ! " 
"  George  May,  mother  ? " 
"Yes,  love;   George  May!     The  same  who 
used  to  pay  us  the  yearly  visit  from  London,  to 
evince  his  gratitude  for  your  father's  kindness. 
The   same  who  died   in  our  village  of  decline 
seven   years   after,  leaving  you   the  Bible    and 
Prayer-book  as  the  only  legacy  which  could  be 
bestowed   by  poor,  but  repentant  George  May! 
But  now,  dear,  it  is  growing  quite  dark,  I  vWll  go 
and  see  our  evening  meal  prepared,  and  when  we 
have  taken  that,  pray  to  your  Maker,  and  then 
retire  to  your  pillow."     And  so  Grace  did;  and 
the  next  morning,  when  she  entered  the  breakfast- 
room,  she  threw  her  arms  around  her  mother's 
neck,  and  whispered   that   she  had   gained  the 
victory ;   she,  too,  would  try  if  her  mind  might 
not  overcome  the  erring  inclinations  of  her  heart. 
Yes,  and  Grace  succeeded ;  and  twenty  years 
after,  when  she  saw  a  daughter  of  her  own  grow- 


34  GRACE    BROWN. 

Ing  up,  she  remembered  how  mildly  her  own 
mother  had  won  her  from  her  folly ;  and  she  felt 
that,  to  be  obeyed  by  that  daughter,  she  must 
remember  that  herseli'  had  once  been  a  wild  and 
wilful  being,  and  that  it  is  only  by  placing  our 
own  hearts  in  the  situation  of  others,  that  we  can 
hope  to  influence  them  by  our  precepts. 


35 

A  SLIGHT  COMPARISON 

BY    R.    BERXAL. 

A  lover's  days  are  quickly  past 

In  sighing  and  entreating ; 
A  husband's  years  don't  run  so  fast 

While  from  his  vows  retreating. 

A  lover's  oath  the  impre.^^  wears 

Of  soft  and  kind  affeciion ; 
The  stronn^er  oath  a  husband  swears 

Is  more  of  rude  complexion. 

[n  courtship,  hearts  forever  scout 

The  notion  of  deceiving  ! 
In  marriage,  minds  begin  to  doubt 

The  prudence  of  believing. 

Attentions  which  a  lover  pays 
Are  always  new  and  pleasing ; 

But  those  the  married  man  displays 
Are  mostly  stale  and  teasing. 

Change  as  they  will,  the  maid — the  wife, 

May  each  secure  in  reason, 
Within  the  almanac  of  life, 

A  spring  and  winter  season. 

I  '11  pause,  dear  girls  —  lest  I  should  find 
That  one  of  you  might  falter, 

Who  had  but  half  made  up  her  mind 
To  kneel  at  Hymen's  altar 


36 


LIFE'S  LAST  FLOWER. 

BT    MISS    SAVAaE. 

A.  TANGLED,  thomy  path  I  trod  alone, 

Where  flowers  were  few,  and  sunshine  rarely 

shone. 
I  watched  amid  the  untrimmed  garden  spring 
One  little  rose,  a  fair,  a  blooming  thing. 
I  loved  it! — as  the  blind  man  loves  to  hear 
The  lark's  sweet  song,  whose  fearless  wing  draws 

near 
Unto  his  well-known  hand,  and  memory  seems 
Stealing  upon  my  soul,  as  moonlight  gleams 
Upon  the  deep,  dark  waters — but  to  show 
Rocks,  though  the  buried  pearl  may  sleep  below 
Low  lies  the  stem  where  once  the  blossom  hung 
Hushed  is  the  strain  the  sky-born  minstrel  sung 
The  blind  man's  bird  hath  fled  to  brighter  skies 
The  flower  I  loved  blooms  now  in  Paradise  ! 


37 


THE  VILLAGE  AMANUENSIS. 

BY    M.    R.    MITFORD. 


"  Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some  wretch's  aid." 

Pops 


Tap  !  went  a  modest,  timid,  shy-sounding 
knock  against  the  okl-fashioned  oaken  door  of 
William  Marshall's  domicile,  in  the  brief  twilight 
of  a  September  evenmg— the  hour  of  all  others 
in  which  a  pretty  young  woman  might,  with  the 
least  risk  of  observation,  pay  a  visit  to  a  hand- 
some bachelor— the  best  hour  to  shield  her  from 
the  attacks  of  village  gossipry,  or  to  cover  her 
ovm  confusion,  should  her  errand  be  such  as  to 
challenge  something  like  a  jest  on  the  part  of  her 

host. 

Tap!  tap!  again  went  the  slender  forefinger; 
but  although  tie  reiterated  summons  was  a 
thought  louder  than  the  first  nearly  audible  de- 
mand for  admittance,  it  was  equally  unsuccessful 
in  arousing  the  attention  of  the  master  of  the 

dwelling.  . 

For  this  abstraction  there  was  a  reason  whicH 
the  young  and  tender-hearted  will  admit  to  be 
4 


38  THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS. 

valid:  the  poor  youth  was  in  love,  and  to  enhance 
that  calamity  he  had  quarrelled  with  the  mistress 
of  his  affections. 

William  Marshall,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write, 
schoolmaster  of  Aberleigh,  the  only  son  of  one  of 
the  poorest  widows  in  the  parish,  was  a  person 
of  great  merit.  Some  quickness  and  much  in- 
dustry had  given  him  a  degree  of  information 
and  refinement  unusual  in  his  station,  and  his 
excellent  conduct  and  character  had  secured  the 
friends  whom  his  talents  had  attracted.  In  short 
he  was  one  of  those  instances — more  frequent 
than  the  grumblers  of  the  world  are  willing  to 
admit — which  prove  that  even  in  this  life  desert 
is  pretty  certain  to  meet  its  reward. 

The  ancient  pedagogue  of  the  village,  a  man 
of  some  learning,  who  availed  himself  of  the 
large  and  airy  schoolhouse  to  add  boarders,  who 
aspired  to  the  accomplishments  of  mathematics 
and  the  classics,  to  the  sturdy  country  lads, 
whom,  by  the  will  of  the  founder,  he  was  bound 
to  instruct  in  reading  and  writing,  declared  that 
this  his  darling  scholar  caught  up,  untaught  and 
unflogged,  all  that  he  painfully  endeavored  to 
instil,  by  book  and  birch,  into  the  fortunate  pupils 
whose  fathers  were  rich  enough  to  pay  for  teach- 
ing and  whipping;  and  he  followed  up  this 
declaration  not  only  by  installing  him.  at  the 
early  age  of  seventeen,  into  the  post  of  his  assist* 


THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS.  39 

ant,  but  by  recommending  him  so  warmly  tc  the 
trustees  as  his  successor,  that  at  his  death,  which 
occurred  about  six  years  after,  William  Marshall, 
in  spite  of  his  youth,  was  unanimously  elected  to 
fill  the  place  of  his  old  master,  and  took  possession 
of  the  pretty  house  upon  School  Green,  with  its 
two  noble  elms  in  front,  as  well  as  the  large  gar- 
den, orchard  and  meadow,  which  the  brook,  after 
crossing  the  green,  and  being  in  turn  crossed  by 
the  road  and  the  old  ivied  bridge,  went  cranking 
round  so  merrily,  clear,  bright,  and  rapid  as  ever 
rolled  rivulet. 

Now  this,  besides  its  pleasantness  as  a  resi- 
dence, formed  a  position  whirh,  considering  the 
difference  of  the  age  and  times,  might  be  reck- 
oned, for  our  modest  scholar,  full  as  good  as  the 
magnificent  proffer  of  the  green  gown,  cow's 
grass,  and  four  merks  a-year,  made  by  the  good 
Abbot  Boniface  to  Halbert  Glendinning,=^  and  by 
the  said  Halbert  Glendinning,  to  the  unspeakable 
astonishment  and  scandal  of  the  assistants,  uncer- 
emoniously rejected;  since,  in  addition  to  the 
stipend  paid  regularly  as  quarter-day  came  round, 
and  the  prospect  of  as  many  boarders  as  the 
house  would  hold,  was  the  probable  contingency 
of  the  tax-gathering  and  rate-collecting,  the  tim- 
ber-valuing and  land  measuring,  which  usually 

*  Vide  "  The  Monastery, » 


40  THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS. 

falls  to  the  share  of  the  schoolmaster,  together 
with  the  reversion  of  the  office  of  parish  clerk, 
provided  always,  that  for  a  "  master  of  schol- 
lars,"*  who  taught  Latin  and  Greek  and  took 
boarders,  such  office  were  not  held  i7ifra  dig. 

William  Marshall's  humble  wishes  were  grati- 
fied. He  was  a  happy  man  ;  for,  in  addition  to 
the  comfort  of  having  a  respectable  home  for  the 
infirm  mother  to  whom  he  had  always  been  a 
most  exemplary  son,  he  had  the  gratification  (so 
at  least  said  the  gossips  of  Aberleigh)  of  prepar- 
ing a  suitable  abode  for  one  of  the  best  and  pret- 
tiest of  our  villao^e  maidens. 

Ever  since  the  days  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe 
proximity  has  been  known  for  the  friend  of  love  ; 
and  such  was  probably  the  case  in  the  present 
instance,  since  Lucy  Wilmot,  the  object  of  Wil- 
liam Marshall's  passion,  was  his  next  neighbor, 
the  brook  of  which  we  have  made  honorable 
mention  being  the  sole  barrier  by  which  her 
father's  meadows  were  divided  from  the  garden 
and  orchard  of  the  school. 

A  more  beautiful  boundary  was  never  seen 
than  that  clear  babbling  stream,  which  went 
wandering  in  and  out,  at  "  its  own  sweet  will," 
with  such  infinite  variety  of  margin  :  now  fringed 
with  alders,  now  tufted  with  hawthorn  and  hazel, 

♦  "  A  scholar,  sir !     I  was  a  master  of  scholars."  —  Ldngo, 
in  the  Agreeable  Surprise. 


THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS.  4^ 

now  rising  into  a  steep  bank  cro\vned  with  t. 
giant   oak,  flinging   its   broad   arms  across   the 
waters,  the  reflection  of  its  rich  indented  foliage 
broken  by  the  frequent  dropping  of  a  smooth 
acorn  from  its  dimpled  cup  ;  now  sloping  gently 
down  into  a  verdant  bay  enameled  with  flowers  cf 
all  hues,  the  intensely  blue  forget-me-not  half- 
hidden  under  the  light   yellow  clusters   of  the 
cross-leaved  bedstraw,  while  the  purple  spikes  of 
the  willow-herb  waved  amidst  the  golden  chali- 
ces of  the  loosestrife,  and  large  patches  of  the 
feathery   meadow-sweet,   the   heliotrope    of   the 
fields,  spread  its  almond-like  fragrance  and  its 
pale  and  feathery  beauty  to  the  very  centre  of  the 
stream,  overhanging  the  sno\V}^  blossoms  of  the 
water-lily  as  they  rose    from   their  deep-green 
leaves,  and  mingling  with  that  most  remarkable 
of  the  many  sedges    that   border   our    English 
streams,  whose  flowers,  placed  so  regularly  on 
either  side  of  their  tall  stalks,  resemble  balls  of 
ebony  thickly  set  with  ivory  spikes.     Certainly, 
of  all  possible  methods  of  dividing  or  uniting  per- 
sons and  property,  this  bright  and  cheerful  stream 
seemed  the  most  propitious  to  social  intercourse, 
as  William  and  Lucy  found  by  experience. 

The  green  in  front  of  the  school-house  formed 
a  commodious  natural  playground  for  the  chil- 
dren, sufficiently  near  for  safety,  and  yet  wide 
enough  for  all  their  sports,  the  noble  game  of 
4# 


4S  THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS. 

rricket.  included:  so  that  those  sharp  little  eyes 
wliich  love  so  dearly  to  pry  into  the  weaknesses 
of    their   elders,    especially    when    those    elders 
assume  the  double  relation  of  example  and  pre- 
ceptor, were,  during  the  intervals  of  tuition,  hap- 
pily engaged  elsewhe-e ;  and  really  nobody,  ex- 
cept perhaps  a  lover,  would  believe  how  attentive 
William  Marshall  became  to  the  cow  which  was 
tethered  in  the  orchard,  how  punctual  in  culling 
himself  all  the  fruit  and  vegetables  needed  from 
the  garden,  how  assiduous,  above  all,  in  watering 
his  mother's  Httle  flower-plot  sloping  down  to  the 
stream  ;  whilst  on  her  part  it  was  at  least  equally 
remarkable  how  often  Lucy  Wilmot  found  cause 
to  fill  her  pail  at  the  brook,  or  to  feed  the  ducks, 
geese,  chickens,  and  turkeys,  which  she  had  dis- 
lodjred  from  their  old  home,  the  farm-yard,  to 
establish  by  the  water-side.     Never  were  poultry 
so  zealously  looked  after.     It  happened  to  be  a 
dry  oummer ;    and  it  stands  upon  record  at  the 
Brook  Farm  that  Lucy  volunteered  to  fetch  all 
the  water  wanted  for  domestic  use  by  the  whole 
family.     "  To  be  sure,"  as  their  sisters  would 
laughingly  observe,  "  they  had  sometimes  to  wait 
for  it,  especially  if  it  were  towards  dinner-time, 
or  before  breakfast,  or  after  school   broke  up. ' 
And  then  Lucy  would  blush,  and  declare  that  she 
tvould  never  go  near  the  place  again ;   and  then, 
by  way  of  keeping  her  word,  she  would  take  up 


THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS.  43 

her  little  basket  of  barley,  and  run  across  the 
meadow  to  feed  her  chickens. 

Halcyon  days  were  these.      What  a  charm- 
ing spot  for  a  rural  flirtation  was  that  mirror-like 
stream!     What  tender  words  floated  across  it! 
AVhat  smiles  and  blushes  looked  brighdy  down 
into  the  bright  waters  !     And  of  how  many  of 
.he  small  gifts,  the  graceful  homages  in  which 
love  delights,  was  that  clear  brook  the  witness  ! 
From  the  earliest  violet  to  the  latest  rose,  from 
the  first  blushing  cherry  to  the  Katherine  pear, 
rich  and  ruddy  as  Lucy's  own  round  healthful 
cheek,  not  an  oflTering  escaped  the  assiduity  of 
the  devoted  lover.      Halcyon  days  were  these  to 
our  friend  William,  when  an  affliction  befell  him 
in  the  very  scene  of  his  happiness  —  a  shadow 
fell  across  the  sunshine  of  his  love,  so  hidious 
and  gloomy  as  to  darken  his  whole  future  pros- 
pects, to  sadden  and  embitter  his  very  life.     Like 
many  other  swift  and  sudden  poisons,  nothing 
could  be  more  innocent  in  appearance  than  this 
implement  of  mischief,  which  wore  the  quiet  and 
unoffending  form  of  an  unopened  letter. 

Hovering  one  day  by  the  side  of  the  stream, 
waiting  with  a  basket  of -'filberts,  "brown  as  the 
squirrel  whose  teeth  crack  them,"  as  Fletcher  ha^ 
it— filberts  firm,  juicy  and  fragrant,  the  first  of 
the  season— waiting  until  the  close  of  evening 
should  bring  his  Lucy  to  tend  her  poultry  undei 


44  THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS. 

the  great  oak — he  saw  a  letter  on  the  grass,  and 
springing  from  bank  to  bank  on  a  spot  a  little 
higher  up,  where  the  brook  was  sufficiently  narrow 
to  admit  of  this  sort  of  lover's  leap,  he  stooped  for 
the  paper,  suspecting  sooth  to  say,  that  i\  might 
be  some  billet-doux  of  his  own,  with  the  design 
of  returning  it  to  the  fair  owner.  His  it  was 
not.  On  the  contrary,  the  epistle  was  sealed 
with  a  pretty  device  of  doves  drinking  from  the 
same  shallow  bowl  —  an  imitation  of  the  exquis- 
ite doves  of  the  Vatican  —  which  he  himself  had 
given  to  Lucy,  his  first  pledge  of  love,  and  directed 
in  her  well-known  hand  to 
Mr.  Willatts, 

at  the  Red  Boot, 

Bristol  Street, 

Belford. 
Well  did  William  Marshall  know  this  Mr. 
Willatts  !  Well  did  he  know  and  heartily  did 
he  despise  this  dandy  of  the  Red  Boot,  who  — 
slim,  civil,  and  simpering,  all  rings  and  chains, 
smirks  and  grimaces,  curls  and  essences  — 
skipped  about  in  his  secondhand  coxcombry,  as 
if  the  vending  of  earthly  boots  and  shoes  were 
too  gross  for  so  ethereal  a  personage,  and  glass- 
slipper  maker  to  Cinderella  were  his  fitting  desig- 
nation !  William  always  had  disliked  him,  in  vir- 
ue  of  the  strong  antipathy  which  opposite  holds  to 
opposite ;  and  now  to  see  a  letter  to  him  directed 


THE    VILLAGE    A^LANUENSIS.  45 

by  Lucy  —  his  Lucy  —  sealed  too  with  that  seal! 
"  But  she  would  explain  it !  of  course  she  would  ! 
she  must,  she  should  explain  what  motive  she 
could  have  for  writing  to  such  a  creature  as  that, 
after  confessing:  her  love  for  him,  after  all  had 
been  arranged  between  her  father  and  himself,  and 
ever^nhing  was  prepared  for  their  marriage  before 
the  ensuing  Christmas.  He  had  a  right  to 
demand  an  explanation,  and  ought  not  to  be  con- 
tent with  anything  short  of  the  most  ample  and 
satisfactory  account  of  the  whole  matter." 

Just  as  he  had  worked  himself  up  to  the  very 
climax  of  angry  suspicion,  his  fair  mistress,  with 
her  eyes  cast  dov\Ti  upon  the  grass,  evidently  in 
search  of  the  lost  letter,  advanced  slowly  towards 
the  spot.  She  started  when  she  saw  him,  and 
when  he  presented  the  epistle,  with  a  greet- 
ing in  the  true  spirit  of  the  above  soliloquy,  in 
which  a  stern  and  peremptory  demand  for  ex- 
planation was  mingled  with  an  ironical  and  con- 
temptuous congTatulation  upon  the  correspon- 
dent whom  she  had  chosen,  her  answer,  between 
confusion  at  the  discovery,  indignation  at  the 
jealousy  so  openly  avowed,  and  astonishment  at 
the  his^h  tone  taken  bv  one  who  had  hitherto 
shown  nothing  but  the  gentlest  tenderness,  dis- 
played so  much  displeasure,  vexation  and  embar- 
rassment, that  the  dialogue  grew  rapidly  into  a 
quarrel,  and  ended  in  a  formal  separation  betweei? 


46  THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS. 

the  lovers.  Each  party  returned  home  an^n? 
and  grieved.  William  most  angry,  if  we  may 
judge  from  his  sending  the  unlucky  filberts,  bas- 
ket and  all,  floating  down  the  stream ;  Lucy 
most  grieved,  if  the  crumpled  letter  and  defaced 
address,  so  nearly  washed  out  by  her  tears  that 
it  required  all  the  skill  and  experience  of  the 
Belford  postmaster  to  decipher  the  legend,  may  be 
accepted  as  evidence. 

In  spite,  however,  of  this  token  of  her  fond 
relenting,  the  first  tidings  that  William  Marshall 
heard  of  Lucy  were  that  she  had  gone  on  a  visit 
to  her  godmother  twenty  miles  off.  William,  on 
.his  part,  staid  at  home  instructing  his  pupils  as 
well  as  he  could.  In  spite  of  lovers'  quarrels 
the  work  of  the  world  goes  on.  To  be  sure  the 
poor  boys  wondered  why  their  master,  usually  so 
even-tempered,  was  so  difficult  to  satisfy ;  and 
his  fond  mother  could  not  comprehend  why, 
when  she  spoke  to  him,  her  son,  always  so  mind- 
ful of  his  only  remaining  parent,  answered  at 
cross  purposes.  But  William,  although  a  lover, 
was  a  strong-minded  man  ;  and  before  a  week 
had  elapsed  he  had  discovered  his  own  infirmity 
and  had  determined  to  correct  it.  Accordingly, 
he  opened  his  desk,  took  out  the  map  of  an  estate 
which  he  had  just  finished  measuring  before  the 
unlucky  adventure  of  the  hero  of  the  Red  Boot, 
and  having  compared  his  own  mensuration  of  the 


THE    VILLAGii    AMANUENSIS.  47 

diiferent  fields  with  the  estimated  extent,  and 
completed  the  necessary  calculations,  had  just 
relapsed  into  a  reverie  when  the  interruption 
occurred  which  formed  the  beginning  of  our  little 
stcry. 

Tap !  tap !  tap  !  sounded  once  again,  and  this 
time  a  little  impatiently.     Tap  !  tap  !  tap  ! 

"  Ah,  my  good  cousin  Kate  !  "  said  William, 
at  last  admitting  the  poor  damsel,  who  had 
waited  this  unmerciful  while  at  the  door,  of 
which  detention  our  lover  had,  one  hardly  know^s 
how,  a  glimmering  consciousness ;  "  I  hope  you 
have  not  been  long  detained  !  Why  did  not  you 
.knock  louder  ?  Do  you  want  my  mother  ?  No ; 
or  you  would  not  have  come  to  the  door  of  my 
little  room.  You  want  me,  Kate,  I  see.  So  tell 
me  at  once  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

And  smiling,  blushing,  and  hesitating,  Kate 
confessed  "  that  she  did  warn  her  cousin  Wil- 
liam;   that  she  had  a  letter "   (William 

started  and  winced  at  the  very  sound,) — "a 
letter  to  write ;  and  she  was  such  a  poor  scholar, 
and  the  friend  w^ho  used  to  write  her  letters  wa.s 
away ;  so  she  had  come  to  trouble  cousin  Wil- 
liam." 

"  No  trouble  at  all,  dear  Kate  !"  rephed  Wil- 
liam, recovering  from  his  confusion,  and  too 
much  occupied  with  the  recollections  awakened 
by  the  very  name  of  a  letter  to  observe  the  em« 


48  THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS. 

barrassment  of  his  pretty  visitor ;  "  no  trouble  at 
all.  Here  is  my  paper  ready.  Now  begin.  Is 
it  to  your  brother  in  London  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  replied  the  blushing  damsel  *  '  not 
to  my  brother  :  to a  friend." 

"  Very  well ! "  said  William.  "  The"  days 
draw  in  so  fast  that  it  will  soon  be  dark.  Begin, 
dear  Kate ! " 

And  after  a  little  hesitation,  and  playing  with 
a  folded  letter  she  held  in  her  hand,  Kate,  in  a 
very   low,    hesitating   voice,   began   to    dictate  * 

"  Dear  Francis " 

"  Dear  Francis,"  echoed  her  amanuensis,  un- 
suspectingly, in  a  still  lower  tone ;  then  pausing, 
and  looking  up  as  expecting  her  to  proceed. 

•'  Stop ! "  said  Kate  ;  "  only  that  it  is  wrong 
to  give  you  the  trouble  to  begin  again  —  but  that 
sounds  so  formal !  " 

"  I  think  it  does,"  replied  William,  dashing 
his  pen  rapidly  through  the  words ;  and  the 
abbreviation  is  so  pretty,  too.  "  There,"  con- 
tinued he  ;  "  Dear  Fanny  ! — that  sounds  as  well 
again ! " 

"  Fanny !  "  exclaimed  Kate,  half  laughing  in 
the   midst   of  her  blushes.      "  Fanny,   indeed 
Why,  cousin  William  !  "  i 

And  cousin  William,  awaking  immediately 
to  the  perception  of  the  true  state  of  the  case, 
dashed  out  the  second  beginning  as  rapidly  as  he 


THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS.  49 

had  done  the  first,  and  laughing  with  a  very 
good  grace  at  his  own  stupidity,  wrote  this  time 
in  full  assurance  of  being  right, — 

*  Dear  Frank  ! " 

"  Fanny,  forsooth ! "  repeated  Kate  still  laugh*' 

"  Well  but,  Kate,  remember  that  I  had  never 
heard  of  this  friend  of  yours.  To  be  sure 
it  was  very,  very  stupid.  But  now  shall  we 
go  on  with  the  letter?  or  may  I  ask  who  this 
Frank" 

"  Fanny,"  interposed  Kate  archly. 

"  Well !  who  this  Francis  is  ?  Does  my  good 
aunt  know,  dear  Kate  ?    or  " 

"  O  yes,  dear  William !  Mother  knows,  and 
father  knows,  and  both  like  him  so  much !  It 
has  been  kept  a  secret  till  now,  because  his 
friends  are  so  much  better  to  do  in  the  world 
than  mine  ;  for  he  is  a  tradesman,  William, 
going  into  partnership  with  his  late  master : 
they  are  so  much  richer  and  grander  than 
father,  that  we  thought  they  might  not  like 
their  eldest  son  to  marry  a  poor  working  girl. 
But  he  said  they  would  only  look  to  good  char- 
acter, and  so  they  say  in  this  letter,  and  they 
have  consented  ;  and  he  told  them  how  you, 
my  own  cousin,  had  got  on  by  your  good  con- 
duct, William,  and  how  proud  he  was  of  know 
ing  you  " 


50  THE    VILLAGE    AMANUENSIS. 

"I  know  him,  then!"    inierrupted  William 
with  pleased  curiosity. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  !  Don't  you  remember  out 
all  drinking  tea  together  at  Farmer  Wilmot's 
last  Sunday  was  three  weeks  ?  Lucy  knew  it 
all  along." 

"  Frank  !  Frank  Willatts  ?  "  inquired  William 
eagerly.  "  Was  it  for  you,  then,  that  Lucy 
wrote  that  letter  ? " 

"  To  be  sure  she  did.  And  were  you  jealous 
of  her,  William  ?  And  was  that  why  she  went 
away  ?  Oh,  William,  William  I  to  be  jealous  of 
dear,  good  Lucy,  because  she  kept  my  secret! 
Oh,  cousin  William  ! " 

But  William  Avas  too  happy  to  be  very  peni- 
tent, and  Kate  was  too  pleased  and  too  busy  to 
dilate  upon  his  offences.  She  had  her  letter  to 
dictate,  and,  with  a  little  help  from  her  willing 
amanuensis,  a  very  pretty  letter  it  was ;  and  so 
completely  in  charity  with  all  the  world,  espe- 
cially with  the  Franks  of  the  world,  was  this 
amanuensis,  that,  before  he  had  finished  Kate's 
epistle,  he  had  written  himself  into  such  feelings 
of  good  will  towards  her  correspondent  as  to  add 
a  most  friendly  and  cousinly  postscript  on  his 
own  account. 

What  were  the  contents  of  the  far  more  ardent 
and  eloquent  letter  which  William  Marshall 
afterwards  wTote,  and  whether  he  did  or  did  no 


THE    VILLAGF    AMANUENSIS.  5 

obtain   his   mistress'   pardon    for   his    jealousy 
and  its  fruits,  we  leave  to   the  imagination  of 
our  fair  readers.     We,  for    our  part,  knowing 
the  clemency  of  the  sex,  incline  to  think  that  he 
did. 


52 


THE  PAWNEE'S  RANSOM. 

BY    GEORGINA    C.     M  TJ  N  R  O  , 
AUTHOK     OF     THE     "VOYAGE     OF    LIFE,"     HTC. 

Moonlight  was  sleeping  on  the  deep  waters  of 
Ontario ;  the  birds  of  day  had  long  sought  the 
shelter  of  the  trees  where  they  were  wont  to  rest, 
and  the  squirrel  and  the  deer  crouched  in  their 
forest  homes,  awakening  but  to  tremble  if  the 
rustling  of  foliage  near,  or  stealthy  step  of  wan- 
dering foot,  told  of  the  owl  or  the  panther  being 
abroad  in  quest  of  prey.  Yet  the  fire  still  burned 
brightly  before  the  lodge  of  Shengooeysh,  and 
while  a  female,  withered  in  premature  old  age, 
sat  at  the  entrance,  her  weather-beaten  counte- 
nance revealed  in  the  full  glare  of  the  blazing 
wood,  a  young  girl,  graceful  as  the  fawn  which 
reposed  in  the  shadow  of  the  lodge,  and  blooming 
as  the  wild  rose  of  her  native  forests,  stood  near 
the  verge  of  the  lake,  gazing  afar  into  the  dis- 
tance. 

All  was  quiet,  save  when  the  melancholy  cry 
of  the  loon  came  over  the  lake  like  the  waihng 
of  a  mournful  spirit,  or  when  the  glancing  waters 
broke  with  low  murmurs  on  the  strand.     It  was 


THE  pawnee's  ransom.  53 

an  hour  for  dreams,  whether  of  joy  or  of  saaness 
to  arise  upon  the  mind,  as  imagination  wanderea 
back  to  the  past,  or  pressed  onward  to  the  future  ; 
it  was  an  hour  for  hopes  and  fears  to  gather 
round  the  heart,  making  it  bright  by  their  smiles, 
or  chilling  it  with  the  shadowing  darkness  of 
their  wings.  The  young  Indian  felt  its  influ- 
ence; and  while  eye  and  ear  were  intent  to 
catch  the  slightest  indication  of  approaching 
sound  or  object,  pleasant  visions  filled  her  heart 
vvith  brightness,  and  glad  anticipations  cast  sun- 
shine on  her  thoughts. 

At  length  a  sound  stole  on  her  ear  :  she  started, 
and,  turning,  assumed  an  attitude  of  yet  more 
earnest  and  marked  attention  ;  it  was  not  the  dash 
of  the  paddle,  for  which  she  had  been  watching, 
which  struck  upon  her  sharpened  sense,  but  a 
distant  footstep,  unexpected  and  unwonted.     She 
listened  —  it  was  a  mocassin  that  touched    the 
ground,  yet  the  acute  facukies  of  her  race  told 
her  the  tread  was  other  than  an  Indian's.     In 
another  instant  a  form  was  seen  moving  in  the 
shade  of  a  clump  of  cedars,  not  an  arrow's  flight 
from  the  Jodge,  and  Sebeganonshee  left  the  lake- 
shore    immediately   and   advanced    to   meet   it. 
When  within  a  few  paces  of  meeting,  the  young 
Indian  paused  and  awaited   the    stranger's  ap- 
proach :    she  had  recognized  him.  already,  for, 
though  he  was  still  a  s^ransfer.  it  was  but  a  sin- 
5* 


64  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

gle  moon  since  ihey  had  p-^rted,  and  the  ligh 
which  now  shone  around  them  had  beamed  as 
brightly  on  the  night  after  he  left  the  solitary 
lodge,  when,  with  others  of  his  race  and  two 
hunters  of  her  own,  he  had  lingered  three  days, 
hunting  and  fishing  in  the  neighborhood.  But 
now  he  was  alone  ;  what  could  have  brought 
him  back  so  soon  ?  —  to  shores  whereon  the  pale 
faces  had  as  yet  no  dwellings,  and  where  the 
subjects  of  either  the  French  or  English  mon- 
arch rarely  wandered,  unless  journeying  on  their 
business  as  fur-traders,  or  with  companions  and 
guides  from  among  the  red-men,  who  still  re- 
tained possession  of  this  portion  of  their  ancient 
heritage. 

"  You  are  welcome ! "  said  the  maiden  courte- 
ously ;  "  the  lodge  of  Shengooeysh  is  open  to 
tlie  pale-face.  Let  him  enter  and  rest ;  an  Indian 
girl  will  stay  to  greet  his  friends." 

Perhaps  this  last  remark  was  not  made  with- 
out intention  ;  at  all  events,  the  stranger  hesitated 
as  he  replied, 

"  No  friends  were  with  him  —  he  was  alone." 

"  My  father  is  ever  glad  to  see  the  faces  of 
many  friends ;  but  a  single  star  is  welcome  in 
the  sky,"  was  the  girl's  sole  response,  as,  in  obe- 
dience to  a  gesture,  the  white  man  walked  on 
towards  the  lodge  beside  her. 

The  old  woman  had  already  arisen,  and  was 


THE    PAWNEE  S    RANSOM.  56 

expecting  their  approach  :    she  evinced  ivo  sur- 
prise at  the  scdden  return  of  her  recent  guest, 
nor,  whatever  they  feU,  did  either  she  or  the  girl 
betray  the  slightest  incredulity  as  to  the  truth  of 
the  somewhat  awkward  story  he  related  about  his 
having  been  accidentally  separated  from  his  com- 
panions, and  unable  to  find  them  again,  or  toll 
where  he  was,  until,  after  several  days  of  lonely 
wandering,  certain  well-remembered  land-marks 
had  that  morning  given  him  the  welcome  intima- 
tion of  being  near  the  dwelling  of  those  who  had 
treated  his  party  so  hospitably  but  a  little  while 
before.     The  Englishman  was  considerably  em- 
barrassed while  rendering   this   account  of  his 
movements,  and  at  its  conclusion  scarcely  dared 
to  look  at  either  of  his  listeners.     But  their  fea- 
tures were  calm ;  no  change  of  expression  betoken- 
ing more  than  that  polite  interest  in  the  speaker's 
affairs  which  Indian  courtesy  required  ;  and  when 
the  tale  was  finished,  the  elder  merely  repeated 
the  welcome  she  had  already  given  ;  and,  with- 
out any  comment,  proceeded  to  make  preparations 
for  the  stranger's  repast,  while  the  younger  stood 
by  in  silence,  as  though  no  observation  from  hci 

were  needed. 

"  But  Shengooeysh,  is  he  absent?"  asked  thr. 
Encrlishman :    "  it  is  late  for  him   to   be   from 

home." 

«  We  look  for  him,"  said  the  maiden ;  "  the 


56  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

step  of  the  pale  face  drew  Sebeganonshee  from 
the  shore  ;  but  she  will  return  and  wait  until  the 
moon  shows  the  canoe  of  Shengooeysh  like  a 
wild-duck  on  the  lake." 

The  Englishman  rose  immediately. 

"  I  will  share  your  watch,"  said  he  eagerly. 

The  girl  was  already  on  her  way  towards  the 
beach,  and  did  not  affect  to  hear  :  but,  after  a  few 
words  to  his  hostess,  declining  the  discussion 
of  broiled  venison  and  Indian-corn  cakes  until 
the  arrival  of  her  husband,  he  followed  with  a 
rapid  step,  and  by  the  time  Sebeganonshee 
reached  the  strand,  he  stood  again  beside  her. 

"  My  father  has  walked  all  day  ;  he  will  be 
weary,"  observed  the  youthful  Indian,  pointing  to 
a  large  stone  near  at  hand,  but  without  the  least 
indication  of  either  surprise  or  displeasure  at  his 
attendance  ;  though  Crauford  knew  not  whether 
there  were  not  some  intentional  quaintness  in  the 
tone  which  addressed  him  by  a  term  of  relation- 
ship commonly  used  in  the  intercourse  between 
the  aborigines  and  Europeans,  however  whimsi- 
cal it  mif^ht  sound  to  his  ears  under  existinof  cir- 
cumstances. 

"  Not  so  fatigued  as  to  rest  while  you  are 
standing,"  replied  Crauford,  endeavoring  to  make 
his  language  at  once  easy  of  comprehension,  and 
capable  of  expressing  a  little  of  the  gallantry 
which  he  would  h^v^t  been  delighted  to  displav. 


THE  pawnee's  ransom.  57 

«  Let  Sebeganonshee  show  the  way,  a  wandering 
stranger  will  be  glad  to  follow." 

The  Indian  girl  complied  without  hesitation  or 
remark,  then,  turning  her  eyes  once  more  towards 
the  lake,  bent  their  gaze  on  the  water  as  fixedly 
as  though  forgetful  of  her  companion's  vicinity ; 
while  he,  on  his  part,  regarded  her  with  a  look 
whose  intense  interest  would  have  betrayed  his 
feelings  to  any  observant  glance. 

The  silvery  moonlight  beaming  on  her  revealed 
the  countenance  of  Sebeganonshee  as  distinctly 
almost  as  though  the  eye  of  day  had  looked  upon 
it ;  and  well  that  countenance  indicated  the  story 
with  which   Crauford  was   already   acquainted. 
She  was  not  the  daughter  of  the  withered  female 
who  ruled  her  father's  household  affairs,  for  the 
Owl  had  been  the  first  of  the  three  wives  of 
Shengooeysh,  and  had  long  outlived  her  fairer 
and  subsequently-wooed  companions.      Sebega- 
nonshee, on  the  contrary,  was  not  of  unmixed  In- 
dian descent,  her  mother  having  been  the  child 
of  Europeans,  carried  away  in  some  inroad  of 
savage  warfare,  when  a  village  was  made  deso- 
late  ;  and,  after  passing  from  the  hands  of  one 
nation  to  another  during  their  internal  contests, 
had  become,  at  length,  an  adopted  daughter  of 
his  tribe,  and  eventually  the  youngest  and  best- 
beloved  wife  of  Shengooeysh.     The  Ermine  had 
retained  no  remembrance  of  the  home  of  her  in- 


68  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

fancy  or  the  customs  of  her  fathers,  to  impart  to 
the  imagination  of  her  child ;  nor  could  she  seek 
to  awake  in  the  young  heart  an  affection  which 
she  had  herself  forgotten ;  hut  she  had  bequeathed 
much  of  her  own  fairness  of  complexion  and  soft- 
ness of  feature  to  arrest  a  passing  glance,  by  sus- 
picion of  her  origin,  and  give  a  more  attractive 
character  to  the  beauty  which  Indian  females  fre- 
quently possess  in  girlhood. 

Motionless  as  a  statue  sat  the  maiden  on  the 
shore,  nor  once  turned  her  look  in  the  direction 
of  the  Englishman,  until,  at  length,  he  asked, — 

"  Has  Sebeganonshee  no  eyes  but  for  the 
lake? — no  ears  but  for  the  murmuring  of  its 
waves  ? " 

"  She  heard  the  voice  of  the  ever-w^akeful 
loon  and  the  wind  sighing  through  the  hemlock 
boughs,"  replied  the  low  silvery  tones  of  the 
Indian  maiden  ;  "  there  was  no  other  sound  until 
the  pale-face  spoke." 

"  But  she  will  listen  if  he  speaks?"  demanded 
Crauford,  eagerly. 

"  My  white  father  knows  that  the  ears  of  his 
daughter  are  ever  open  to  his  voice,"  responded 
the  girl,  and  s.gain  Crauford  doubted  whether 
she  had  not  purposely  chosen  that  mode  of 
addressing  him  :  —  certainly  although  he  was  at 
the  age  when  romance  has  not  withdrawn  ita 
golden  mists  from  the  imagination  of  youth,  and 


THE  pawnee's  ransom.  59 

by  no  means  without  a  justly  favorable  opinion 
of  his  own  appearance,  the  manner  of  Sebega- 
nonshee  caused  him  to  feel  considerable  embar* 
rassment  while  introducing  the  subject  which  at 
present  occupied  his  thoughts. 

This  he  sought  to  accomplish  with  somewhat 
of  the  simplicity  of  Indian  manners,  with  which 
frequent  wanderings  to  the  villages,  and  amid  the 
hunting-grounds  of  various  tribes,  had  occasioned 
his  being  in  some  degree  acquainted.  With  this 
view  he  began  to  speak  of  his  distant  home,  of 
that  island  which  the  salt  waves  encircled  on 
every  side,  and  on  whose  shores  those  of  every 
tongue  and  every  color  were  secure  both  of 
'welcome  and  protection.  The  hues  with  which 
he  painted  all  were  bright,  and  over  the  picture 
was  cast  the  rich  glow  of  an  enthusiastic  mind's 
partiality  for  the  country  of  its  birth. 

"  The  land  of  the  pale-faces'mustbe  a  pleasant 
land  ;  I  wonder  its  children  travel  so  far  to  see 
the  setting  sun,"  the  girl  dryly  remarked,  during 
a  pause  which  appeared  to  demand  some  obser- 
vation on  her  part. 

Crauford  felt  the  sarcasm,  and  hastily  replied, 

"  Does  my  sister  not  know  why  ?  Has  she 
not  seen  the  bees,  when  their  nation  has  become 
too  large  for  their  dwelling,  send  forth  the 
young  to  seek  another  habitation  ?  It  is  thus  my 
fathers  acted.     They  said  to  their  young  meA 


/ 


60  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

*  We  have  grown  too  many  for  the  land  whicf* 
the  Great  Spirit  who  rules  the  earth  and  sky  has 
^ven  us  :  go,  find  a  country  where  there  shail  be 
room ! '  Then  said  their  children,  '  The  red- 
men  have  lands  which  they  are  too  few  to  till, 
and  deer  which  they  have  not  time  to  hunt :  let 
us  aid  them  —  the  Great  Spirit  meant  not  that 
the  land  should  be  so  empty  ;  there  is  room  for 
both ;  and  when  He  sees  that  they  are  brothers, 
He  will  smile  alike  upon  his  red  children  and  his 
white.'" 

Sebeganonshee  bowed  her  head  in  silence,  as 
though,  if  not  satisfied  with  the  explanation,  she 
had  no  desire  of  prolonging  the  discussion  :  then 
the  Englishman  proceeded, — 

"  But  there  are  some  for  whom  their  fathers 
have  made  room,  even  in  the  island  where  their 
eyes  first  opened  to  the  light — that  island  which 
Sebeganonshee,  if  she  saw,  would  not  scorn  ii 
as  she  does.  In  that  isle  there  are  trees,  beneath 
whose  shade  the  children  of  the  same  family 
have  played  for  more  than  twenty  generations  ; 
there  are  lakes  as  beap.tiful  as  this,  quiet  lakeSj 
on  whose  shores  an  Indian  girl  might  dream  that 
the  deep  waters  of  her  native  clime  were  glitter- 
ing before  her ;  tall  forests,  where  the  deer  lie 
hidden  from  the  eyes  of  men ;  and  lonely  glens 
as  wild  as  ever  tempted  the  red-man's  foot  to  lin- 
ger in  its  depths ;  and  lodges  are  there  also   not 


THE    pawnee's    ransom.  61 

formed  of  boughs  and  bark,  but  built  of  rocks, 
which  the  anger  of  men  could  hardly  overthrow, 
and  which  the  tempests  of  many  winters  cannot 
shake ;  stately  dwelUngs  of  the  great  and  hon- 
ored, chiefs  whose  wisdom  and  bravery  have 
made  them  respected  and  powerful  in  their  na- 
tion:  and,  let  the  ears  which  hear  me  listen  !" 
—  here  the  voice  of  the  Englishman  sunk  to  an 
impressive  whisper,  and  his  words  were  uttered 
more  slowly — "  among  these  dwellings  there  is 
one  where  Sebeganonshee  would  be  loved  and 
honored  as  the  fairest  bird  which  could  rest  with- 
in its  bov.'ers." 

"  The  Wax-wing  is  content  to  fold  her  pinions 
beside  the  waters  of  Ontario,"  the  maiden  at  once 
replied ;  "  why  should  she  bend  her  flight  to 
other  shores  ? " 

In  an  instant  the  Englishman  had  started  to 
his  feet  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Daughter  of  Shengooeysh ! "  he  exclaimed, 
"  it  is  not  by  such  words  that  love  like  mine  must 
be  answered !  Those  eyes  which  shrink  from 
my  gaze  to  the  sands  at  your  feet,  I  know  that 
they  have  looked  into  my  heart,  I  know  that  they 
have  seen  what  my  tongue  would  not  have  skill 
to  tell.  It  is  not  foolishness  which  my  voice  has 
breathed  into  the  ears  of  Sebeganonshee  —  the 
home  of  the  wanderer  is  fair  to  look  on,  but  he 
will  return  to  it  with  a  heav)''  heart  if  an  Indian 
6 


62  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

girl  says  he  must  dwell  there  alone  Hear  me 
Sebeganonshee !  more  than  the  mother  who  has 
left  you,  or  the  father  who  remains,  will  the  pale- 
face be  to  you !  he  will  love  you  better  than  the 
life  which  the  Great  Spirit  has  given  him,  he  will 
guard  you  as  the  manito-mukwaw^  guards  her 
cubs  from  injury,  and  watch  ever}^  change  in 
your  mind  as  the  Ontario  watches  the  passing  of 
each  cloud  that  darkens  the  I'ace  of  heaven  :  the 
butterfly  that  sports  from  flower  to  flower  has  not 
a  ha).pier  life  than  shall  be  yours,  nor  is  the  bee, 
who  is  obeyed  by  all  her  tribe,  more  honored 
than  Sebesfanonshee  shall  be  as  the  wife  of  the 
island-chief." 

He  was  silent :  there  was  an  interval  of  many 
seconds,  and  then  the  sweet  tones  of  the  maiden 
came  like  plaintive  music  on  the  air, — 

"  Son  of  the  stranger  !  the  heart  of  Sebega- 
nonshee is  with  her  nation.     It  is  enough  ! " 

"  With  her  nation  !  "  repeated  Crauford. 
"  Child  of  the  Ermine !  have  you  forgotten  that 
in  that  isle,  around  which  the  salt  lake's  waves 
axe  murmurmg,  the  graves  of  j^our  mother's 
fathers  lie  beside  the  last  resting-places  of  mine 
own  ?  that  her  brothers  dwell  there  yet  ?  and  that 
her  people  were  as  mine  ?  Has  Sebeganonshee 
forgotten  how  like  an  eagle  the  red-man  swooped 

*  The  Sfrizzly  bear 


THE  pawnee's  ransom.  63 

and  bore  away  the  Ermine,  that  she  speaks  thus 
cf  her  nation  ?  " 

The  girl  raised  her  head,  and  even  that  pallid 
moonlight  showed  the  deep  color  rushing  to  her 
brow,  as  she  replied  with  a  haughty  gesture  and 
energetic  lone, — 

"  There  may  be  snow  in  the  veins  of  Sebega- 
nonshee,  but  her  heart  is  all  red  ;  and  the  Manitn 
has  given  to  her  the  soul  of  her  fathers.  Let  the 
son  of  many  chiefs  fmd  a  wife  among  the  maid- 
ens of  his  own  color.  It  is  night,  and  an  Indian 
girl  is  not  able  to  see  him." 

"  But  the  night  will  soon  pass  and  day  will 
come,"  said  Crauford,  gently.  "  What  does  my 
sister  mean  ? " 

The  maiden's  haughtiness  had  already  faded 
to  an  air  of  dignified  humility:  her  glance  had 
again  sunk  to  the  sands,  but  she  looked  up  timJdly 
as  her  low  voice  murmured  softly, — 

"  An  Indian  cfirl  has  but  one  heart,  and  that  is 
with  her  nation  !  " 

Crauford  could  no  longer  doubt  the  express 
significance  of  this  reply.  It  was  evident  that 
another  had  won  the  girl's  affections  ere  he  had 
met  her.  Yet  he  strove  to  dazzle  her  imagina- 
tion by  pictures  of  the  world  she  had  not  seen, 
and  to  shake  her  fidelity  to  his  unknown  rival  by 
descriptions  of  scenes,  perhaps  too  utterly  unlike 
all  she  hnd  bpheld.  to  possess  a  fair  chance  of 


64  THE    PAWNEE  S    RANSOM. 

temptation.  But,  had  it  been  even  otherwise, 
had  she  been  capable  of  appreciating  all  the 
charms  of  the  splendor  he  depicted,  and  of  com- 
prehending the  full  force  of  the  ideas  which 
could  find  no  echo  in  her  mind,  Sebeganonshee 
would  have  still  been  true  to  the  attachment  she 
had  acknovdedged,  and  as  firmly  as  now  resisted 
every  attempt  to  win  her  thoughts  from  her  In- 
dian lover,  or  excite  one  feeling  of  curiosity  to 
behold  scenes  in  which  he  would  never  be  Bn 
actor.  She  listened  to  the  Englishman,  at  first 
with  indiflerence,  but  after  a  while  he  was  morti- 
fied at  perceiving  that  it  was  with  contempt. 
Meanwhile  her  vigilant  glance  still  kept  watch 
on  the  gently  undulating  waters  gleaming  like  a 
lake  of  liquid  silver  in  the  moonbeams  ;  and,  had 
the  training  of  her  Indian  nature  been  less  imper- 
ative as  to  the  suppression  of  emotion,  the  anxi- 
ety which  filled  her  mind  would  have  been  ^vrit- 
ten  on  her  countenance. 

At  length,  with  an  exclamation  of  pleasure,  the 
girl  suddenly  rose  to  her  feet ;  but  in  an  instant 
the  bright  expression  passed  from  her  features, 
and  she  folded  her  hands  on  her  bosom  with  an 
air  of  sadness  and  disappointment. 

"  Shengooeysh  is  not  coming?"  inquire:' 
Crauford,  who,  though  he  also  looked  across  the 
'aife,  observed  nothing. 

"  He  will   soon  be   here,"   <5aid    che   maiden 


THE  tawnee's  ransom.  65 

calmly,  poii.ang  to  a  dark  speck  on  the  m  on- 
lit  waters ;  "  there  is  his  canoe ;  my  father  is 
alone." 

"  And  you  expected  to  see  another  with  him  ? " 
asked  Crauford,  quickly. 

Sebeganonshee  bent  her  head,  and,  without 
reply,  moved  with  a  noiseless  step  across  the 
sands  to  the  extreme  verge  of  the  lake.  Crau- 
ford followed ;  but  not  a  word  more  was  spoken 
bv  either  until  the  canoe  had  touched  the  beach. 
The  sincrle  hunter  it  contained  uttered  the  cus- 
tomary  greeting  and  welcome  to  his  former  guest 
on  comprehending  that  he  had  returned  to  claim 
his  hospitality  again,  and  bestowed  a  kind  look 
and  smils  on  his  daughter  as  he  sprang  to  the 
shore  ;  yet  Crauford  fancied  that  the  countenance 
of  Shengooeysh  was  more  grave,  and  his  air 
more  serious,  than  they  had  used  to  be. 

Not  a  question  was  asked  by  either  the  Owl  or 
the  Wax-winsT  as  to  the  reason  of  the  Indian's 
protracted  absence,  and  but  for  the  inquiring  look 
which  Crauford  observed  the  younger  ever  and 
anon  to  cast  on  her  father's  impenetrable  counte- 
nance, one  might  have  deemed  they  had  not  a 
thought  or  an  interest  beyond  the  diligent  pie- 
paration  of  the  supper  so  unusually  delayed. 
The  meal  was  at  length  in  readiness,  venison  and 
the  wild  blue  pigeon,  dried  bear's  meat,  salmon- 
trout,  and  sturofeon  soup,  smoked  in  and  upon 
6#^ 


66  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

wooden  bowls  and  platters,  and  whatever  fault 
might  be  found  with  the  cookery,  there  was  none 
in  the  quality  of  the  principal  articles  employed. 

Crauford  had  seen  too  much  of  Indian  life  to 
shudder  at  the  knife  which  Shengooeysh  pro- 
duced to  carve  his  food,  or  to  heed  the  shape  or 
dimensions  of  the  brilliant  shells  which  supplied 
the  place  of  spoons,  or  any  other  little  eccentrici- 
ties in  the  supper  equipage ;  but  the  occurrences 
of  that  evening  had  deprived  him  of  ail  inclina- 
tion to  profit  either  by  forest  luxuries  or  by  the 
grave  and  formal  conversation  of  his  host.  He 
was  besides  stro.ngly  disposed  to  pierce  the  mys- 
tery which  he  felt  Sebeganonshee  was  eager  to 
penetrate,  not,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  so  much 
to  calm  the  maiden's  anxiety,  as  because  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  discovery  might  tend  to 
his  own  advantage. 

Though  the  Owl  had  retreated,  and  now  sat 
by  the  fire  at  some  distance,  her  step-daughter 
remained  standing  near  Shengooeysh,  to  all  ap- 
pearance n  waiting  to  obey  his  commands,  but  in 
reality  tarrying  to  mark  if  any  word  fell  from  his 
lips  respecting  the  subject  on  which  she  .onged 
to  question  him. 

But  Crauford  was  no  Indian,  and  could  not 
long  imitate  their  conventional  air  of  indifference. 

"  Shengooeysh  was  late  upon  the  lake  to- 
Dight,"  he  observed  ;    "  I  thought  he  had  met 


THE    PAWNEE  S    RANSOM.  67 

friends  whose  talk  was  so  pleasant  that  it  wciula 
keep  him  with  them  until  morning." 

"  We  met  friends,"  said  the  Indian,  "  but  their 
talk  was  like  the  thunder  that  growls  when  the 
storm  clouds  are  meeting  in  the  sky;  like  the 
howling  wind  that  tells  on  shore  that  waves  have 
swept  over  the  canoe  which  the   tempest  found 

upon  the  lake." 

"  Their  speech  has  been  sad ;  I  trust  it  has  not 
made  my  brother  sorrowful,"  was  the  instant  re- 
mark of  Crauford. 

"  The  Eagle  loves  to  hear  of  war,  but  he  likes 
not  if  a  chance  arrow  strikes  the  children  that  he 
loves,"  replied  the  hunter. 

Sebeo-anonshee  started,  and  bent  forward  to 
listen  more  intensely,  as  her  father  continued, — 

"  The  Mohawks  have  danced  the  war-dance 
and  raised  the  tomahawk  against  the  Pawnee 
Loups,  their  young  men  are  near  the  waters  of 
the  Great  Fall,  and  a  chief  of  the  Pawnees  will 
sing  his  death-song  before  the  sun  has  set  again." 

"  And  this  chief  is  the  friend  of  Shengooeysh  ?  " 
the  Englishman  observed,  inquiringly. 

"  It  is  so ;  my  brother  has  said  truly :  the 
Mink  thought  to  have  seen  the  Pav,Tiee  rest 
beside  his  fire  to-night ;  but  as  the  :hief  hunted  in 
the  forests  of  the  lakes,  and  had  not  sat  in  the 
war-council  of  his  tribe,  the  Mohawks  came  upon 
him  as  a  panther  spriiigs  on  the  deer  amid  the 


■68  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

darkness,  and   the   arrow  has    fallen    from    tho 
quiver  of  the  Pawnees  ! " 

A  low  hysterical  cry  escaped  the  Wax- wing's 
lips.  Her  father  turned  instantly,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  muscles  of  his  face  quivered  slightly  ; 
but  all  was  calm  again  as  he  addressed  the  weep- 
ing girl  with  a  coldness  which  the  presence  of 
the  Englishman  alone  occasioned. 

"  Tears  are  for  women ;  an  Indian  girl  should 
know  how  to  let  them  fall  in  silence.  Why  does 
she  mourn  ?  flowers  fade  but  once  ;  Leksho  will 
die  like  a  warrior,  and  his  people  will  regret 
him." 

But  the  anguish  of  Sebeganonshee  defied  the 
restraints  of  Indian  stoicism ;  and  while  the 
hunter  looked  on  with  a  countenance,  whose 
very  immobility  of  expression  indicated  the  exist- 
ence of  emotions  he  was  fearful  of  betraying, 
Crauford's  heart  was  touched  by  her  distress, 
though  he  knew  it  to  be  occasioned  by  his  unfor- 
tunate rival's  fearful  doom. 

"  And  where  are  these  Mohawks  ? "  he  at 
length  inquired. 

"  Beyond  Niaga-ra,  where  the  sound  of  his 
voice  is  like  never-dying  thunder.  The  Eagle 
shief  who  leads  them  waits  for  his  young  men 
from  the  south  to  see  a  Pawnee  die." 

"  The  Eagle  ! "  repeated  Crauford  ;  and  he 
mused   on.  while    Shengooeysh  explained   how 


THE  pawnee's  ransom.  69 

ihis  particular  band  of  the  Aganuschion=^  had  no 
been  on  the  war-path  when  they  had  accidentally 
surrounded  and  captured  Leksho,  who  was  igno- 
rant of  hostilhies  existing  between  his  tribe  and 
any  of  their  nations. 

Crauford  reflected  a  considerable  tirae  ni 
silence  ;  then,  leaving  the  hunter,  he  approached 
^\-here  the  maiden  sat  weeping  apart. 

"Let  Sebeganonshee  open  her  ears!"  he  be- 
gan.    "  Would  she  be  glad  that  Leksho  lived  ?" 

The  girl  started  and  looked  up  with  a  painful 
dee:ree  of  emotion. 

"  Why  does  the  pale-face  come  with  words 
to  torture  the  soul  of  Sebeganonshee  ? "  she  de- 
manded. "What  wish  can  stay  a  falling 
stone  ?  " 

"  But  a  ready  hand  may  catch  it.  If  an  Indian 
girl  desires,  it  shall  be  done." 

"  Is  the  pale-face  a  Manito  ?  Then  he  may  do 
it.  But  who  is  he  that  tears  his  prey  from  the 
talons  of  the  Eagle?" 

"  The  pale-face  will  try,"  said  Crauford, 
fiercely.  "  What  would  my  sister  do  to  save  the 
Pawnee's  life  ?  " 

"  She  would  give  her  own ! "  exclaimed  the 
maiden,  eagerly ;  "  she  would  give  her  head  lo 
.he  scalping-knife  of  the  Mohawk,  and  herse  J  to 
the  torture." 

*  Collective  name  of  the  Five  Nations. 


70  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

"  Would  she  leave  the  forest  of  Ontario  for  the 
island  of  the  great  salt  lake  ? "  asked  Crauford, 
pointedly.  "  If  she  will  hear  the  voice  of  the 
stranger  it  may  be  done." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet,  and,  folding  her 
hands,  gazed  on  him  in  silence,  though  inquir- 
ing]}'. In  a  few  seconds  the  Englishman's  voice 
was  heard  again,  and  in  yet  more  urgent  terms 
he  asked  whether  she  would  dwell  among  her 
mother's  people  as  his  wife,  if  by  his  means  the 
Pawnee  chief  were  set  at  liberty  ? 

There  Avas  a  violent  struggle  in  the  maiden's 
feelings,  but  it  soon  passed  by,  as  the  weaker  of 
meeting  currents  is  borne  down  by  the  stronger ; 
in  a  tone  low  as  the  murmur  of  distant  waves, 
she  answered, — 

"  Let  the  Arrow  stand  on  this  shore  as  free  as 
the  wind  which  bears  the  words  of  Sebesfanon- 
shee  afar  to  the  graves  and  hunting-grounds  of 
her  nation,  and  an  Indian  girl  will  forsake  all, 
and  follow  the  stranger  whither  he  will  Sebe- 
ganonshee  has  spoken.     It  is  enough  ! " 

She  cast  herself  on  the  earth  again,  and  the 
Englishr.ian  forbore  to  intrude  further  on  her 
sorrow.  He  returned  to  Shengooeysh,  and,  ex- 
plaining that  he  had  some  influence  with  the 
Mohawk  chief,  which  might  be  exerted  for  the 
benefit  of  Leksho,  expressed  his  intention  of  set* 
ting  out  for  the   Eagle's   camp  without  delay 


THE    pawnee's    ransom.  7i 

The  Mink,  so  the  old  warrior  was  named,  accom- 
panied Crauford  on  the  long  and  fatiguing  lar'' 
journey  thus  suddenly  undertaken,  from  the 
southern  shore  of  Lake  Ontario  to  beyond  the 
never-silent  Niagara,  and  when,  with  the  dawn, 
the  roaring  cataract  and  long  rapids  ab(  ve  it  were 
passed  by,  the  Indian  produced  a  can  le,  hidden 
for  such  exigence  beneath  a  fallen  beech,  ready 
to  bear  them  over  the  waters. 

It  was  on  the  right  bank  of  Lake  Erie,  where 
the  wild  beast  and  the  red  man  still  held  undis- 
puted sway,  that  the  sun,  of  noon  looked  on  a 
scene  which  is  every  day  becoming  less  frequent 
on  that  continent,  where  a  flag  has  since  arisen 
which  was  as  then  unthought  of,  and  whence  a 
snowy  ensign  vanished,  which  is  already  a  thing 
unseen,  although  remembered. 

There  was  a  circular  space  free  from  wigwams 
in  the  centre  of  the  Mohawk  encampment,  and 
already  the  entire  party  were  assem.bled,  the  cap- 
tive bound  to  the  stake,  and  every  preparation 
which  savage  ingenuity  could  suggest  had  been 
made  for  the  satisfactory  prosecution  of  the  fiend- 
ish art  of  torture.  But  why  proceed  to  particu- 
larize ?  It  could  not  be  a  pleasant  subject  for  any 
pen,  and  who  that  has  ever  perused  the  horrible 
details  of  Indian  barbarity  would  desire  to  en- 
counter any  portion  of  such  again  ?  But  the 
savage  work  had  not  as  yet  begun  ;  all  was  in 


72  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

readiness ;  the  signal  to  commence  alone  was 
wanting,  and  was  awaited  with  fierce  impatience 
by  even  the  women  and  children  of  the  band; 
whose  eagerness  proved  the  love  of  cruelty  to  be 
inherent  in  their  nature,  and  shared  equahy  oy 
every  age  ;  perhaps,  had  the  truth  been  known, 
none  were  more  impatient  for  the  looked-for  sig- 
nal than  the  silent  and  haughty  captive,  who 
stood  prepared  to  meet  unshrinkingly  his  fate. 

A  stern  and  dignified  chief,  with  a  war-plume 
of  eagle's  feathers,  and  painted  hideously,  stood 
surrounded  by  a  group  of  his  bravest  warriors. 
Already  his  arm  was  raised,  and  the  words  were 
on  his  lips,  when  a  movement  was  observed 
among  the  outer  ranks,  and  a  sentinel  or  scout 
entered  the  circle,  accompanied  by  a  stranger. 

The  keen  eye  of  the  chief  recognized  the  Eng- 
lishman at  once,  and  he  advanced  immediately  to 
greet  him. 

"  My  young  brother  is  very  welcome,"  sa'd 
the  Mohawk ;  "  will  he  see  the  games  of  the 
sons  of  the  Aganuschion  ? " 

"  Those  of  my  nation  do  not  love  to  look  on 
them,"  answered  Crauford ;  "  the  pale-face  strikes 
his  foes  in  battle,  but  when  it  is  over  they  are  his 
brothers.  But  the  birds  of  the  dark  woods  whis- 
pered in  my  ear  that  the  Arrow  of  the  Pawnees 
had  been  struck  dowTi  by  the  Eagle  of  the  Mo- 


THE  pawnee's  ransom.  73 

hawks ;  and  I  came  to  ask  the  chief  if  his  eyes 
had  ever  looked  upon  my  face  before  ?  " 

The  warrior  pointed  towards  the  waters  which 
might  be  seen  afar  glowing  in  the  sunshine  as  he 
replied,  — 

"  The  mind  of  the  Mohawk  is  not  like  the 
lake,  which  changes  with  every  breath  which  the 
Manitoag^^  blows  upon  it :  the  Eagle  never  for- 
gets." 

"  Then  the  chief  has  not  forgotten  how  the 
flowers  which  faded  before  the  last  snows  had 
fallen,  saw  a  stranger  fight  by  his  side  on  the 
distant  banks  of  Oh-ey-o  ? " 

"  No  ! "  exclaimed  the  Mohawk  chief,  with  en- 
ergy ;  "he  has  not  forgotten  how,  when  the 
Eaffle  was  as  a  rush  bruised  and  trodden  under 
foot,  and  his  wings  were  crushed  and  broken, 
and  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  father  calling  him 
to  the  spirits'  land,  the  pale-face  fought  as  it  had 
been  a  Manito  against  the  Shawnees,  casting 
them  do\\m  as  the  moose  breaks  down  the  young 
branches  from  the  trees ;  and  how  he  saved  the 
scalp  of  the  Mohawk  from  the  knife  of  his  ene- 
mies !  The  Eagle  does  not  forget ;  nor  how  the 
young  pale-face  became  a  medicine  in  his  need, 
and  watched  him  as  a  dove  watches  her  young 
ones,  until  Waneyot  gave  him  strength,  and  the 

*  The  Manitoag  are  the  genii  of  Indian  fairy-lore. 
tThe  Spa  a. 
7 


74  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

Eagle  could  again  flap  his  wings  above  the  war 
path." 

"  And  then  the  chief  said "  here  Crauford 

hesitated. 

"  That  he  owed  the  white  warrior  a  life,  and 
would  give  when  he  should  ask  it,"  proceeded  the 
chief,  in  tones  of  softness  widely  contrasting  with 
his  terrific  appearance.  "  Has  my  young  brother 
come  to  ask  the  Eagle's?  —  it  is  his  if  he  will 
take  it." 

Crauford  almost  laughed. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  hastily  ;  "  but,  chief  of  the 
Eagle-spirit,  and  dauntless  heart,  I  have  come  as 
a  beggar  to  your  camp  —  I  have  come  as  a  trader 
to  tell  you  of  former  debts ;  but  give  me  the 
Arrow's  life,  and  the  white  warrior  will  tell  his 
nation  that  the  Eagle's  heart  is  true,  and  his  hand 
is  always  open." 

The  brow  of  the  chief  grew  dark  as  the  sur- 
face of  the  Huron  when  a  storm  breaks  upon  its 
waters. 

"  The  Pawnee  belongs  to  my  young  men," 
said  he,  coldly ;  "  they  must  not  be  disap- 
pointed." 

A  feather  lay  upon  the  ground,  Crauford  lifted 
and  blew  it  from  his  hand. 

"  I  shall  remember  that,  like  this,  a  Mohawk's 
word  is  blown  aside  ;  that  his  promises  are  like 
the  snow,  which  in  a  few  moons  melts  and  is  no 


THE   pawnee's    RAJSfSOM.  75 

ionger  seen  !      I  go  to  my  people  to  think  of 

what  the  red  man  has  showm  me  of  his  heart, 

I  go,  unless  the  Eagle  has  already  forgotten  that 
the  stranger's  path  should  be  left  open." 

Crauford  spoke  in  great  indignation  and  excite- 
ment, and,  without  any  further  leave-taking,  he 
turned  angrily  away  ;  the  crowd  opened  at  his 
approach,  and  he  had  proceeded  several  steps 
before  the  Eagle's  voice  arrested  him. 

"  My  brother  is  not  wise,"  said  the  chief;  "  his 
feet  are  like  the  wind  which  tarries  not,  though 
we  call  on  it  to  stay.  What  is  a  Pawnee  that  he 
should  make  my  brother's  face  look  dark  towards 
us  ?  Many  of  his  tribe  will  feed  the  death-fires 
of  the  Mohawks,  ere  the  tomahawk  be  buried, — 
my  young  men  will  not  miss  one.  Son  of  the 
Long  Knives,  take  the  Arrow,  he  is  yours  ! " 

We  will  pass  over  the  acknowledgments  of 
Crauford,  who  thanked  the  Eagle  warmly,  while 
the  warriors  unbound  their  captive,  who,  with 
lofty  demeanor  and  haughty,  unchanging  counte- 
nance, had  heard  every  word  of  the  dialogue  in 
which  he  was  so  deeply  interested.  It  was  be- 
neath the  dignity  of  an  Indian  brave  to  evmce 
any  great  curiosity  as  to  the  cause  of  the  stran- 
ger's interposition  in  his  favor,  or  to  betray  lively 
pleasure  at  the  success  of  his  efforts,  yet,  in  the 
grasp  of  friendship  with  which  Leksho  pressed 
his  hand,  as  at  length  they  stood  alone  beyond 


76  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

the  boundaries  of  the  Mohawk  camp,  Cran- 
ford  recognized  the  gratitude  of  a  generous  and 
gallant  spirit,  and  his  heart  almost  smote  him 
when  he  remembered  wherefore  that  deed  of 
kindness  had  been  done. 

Noontide  beamed  again  on  the  deep  lakes  and 
dark  forests  of  the  West,  and  the  waters  of  Onta- 
rio were  glowing  brightly  in  the  sunshine,  when 
■-.he  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard  from  beyond  the 
tall  cedars  .which  frowned  near  the  lodge  of 
Shengooeysh.  Their  tread  was  light,  but  the 
quick  ear  of  Sebeganonshee  caught  the  signal  of 
their  approach,  and,  with  breathless  anxiety,  she 
gazed  in  the  direction  whence  it  came  ;  another 
moment,  and  her  father,  the  English  stranger, 
and  the  Pawnee,  stood  before  her. 

The  Owl  instantly  raised  a  joyful  cry  at  their 
appearance,  but  Sebeganonshee  stood  with  clasped 
hands,  the  image  of  gratitude  rather  than  of  de- 
light. 

"  My  sister  sees  how  the  pale-face  has  kept 
his  promise,"  said  Crauford,  triumphantly.  "  The 
Arrow  is  free  again  to  carry  death  among  his 
enemies." 

The  maiden  bowed  her  head  in  silence  :  Lek- 

sho  little  dreamed  of  the  emotions  that  downcast 

Dok  might  have  revealed.     An  hour  had  passed, 

ind  still  the  maiden  had  scarcely  spoken,  and  at 

.ength  her   Indian    lover  observed,  when    none 


THE  pawnee's  ransom.  77 

were  within  hearing  except  the  Enghshman, 
who,  reclining  on  the  grass  beneath  the  lengthen- 
ing shadow  of  a  walnut-tree,  appeared  asleep, — 

"  Did  the  night- winds  bear  away  the  voice 
of  Sebeganonshee,  that  it  is  silent  when  a  Paw- 
nee should  be  welcomed,  and  a  white  warrior  be 
thanked  ? " 

The  soft  voice  of  the  maiden  trembled  percep 
tibly  as  she  replied, — 

"  Let  the  Arrow  pause  in  its  flight  to  hear  the 
foolish  words  of  an  Indian  girl :  a  panther  sprang 
upon  a  fawn  which  a  dove  loved  very  dearly, 
and  bore  it  off  to  his  lair  to  be  food  for  his  little 
ones  ;  the  dove  wept,  for  the  fawn  was  dearer  to 
her  than  all  the  beasts  of  the  forest,  and  the  fox 
who  saw  them  fall  asked  the  meaning  of  her 
tears  ;  he  was  a  brave  beast  and  a  cunning,  and 
he  bade  the  dove  mourn  no  more,  for  he  could 
rescue  the  fawn  she  loved  from  the  teeth  of  the 
panther;  the  dove  listened,  and  the  fawn  was 
free  to  sport  beneath  the  trees  where  his  life  had 
passed  away;  but  the  dove  folded  her  wings, 
and  fell  mto  the  mouth  of  the  fox.  How  should 
she  be  glad,  though  her  heart  is  full  of  grati- 
tude?" 

"  My  sister's  meaning  is  too  dark :  there  is  a 
mist  before  the  Pawnee's  eyes,  and  he  cannot 
see,"  replied  the  warrior. 

*  I  have  spoken,"  said  the  girl ;  "  the  pale-face 

7# 


78  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

needs  no  thanks  ;  but  Sebeganonshee  must  turn 
her  face  towards  another  land." 

By  this  time  Crauford  had  risen,  and  stood 
before  the  astonished  Indian. 

"  It  is  so,  Leksho,"  said  he,  firmly  ;  "  this 
maiden  goes  to  be  my  wife  in  the  villages  of  my 
people.  A  Pawnee  chief  would  not  rob  a  stran- 
ger of  that  which  he  has  fairly  bought  ?  " 

Leksho  threw  open  his  mantle. 

•'  Son  of  the  stranger,"  said  he,  earnestly, 
"  strike !  Take  the  life  which  thou  has  given, 
to  be  a  torment  greater  than  the  Mohawk  had 
dreamed  of  to  try  the  courage  of  a  warrior. 
Strike !  thy  knife  is  better  in  an  Indian's  heart 
than  the  words  thou  hast  spoken  in  his  ears  !  It 
was  the  voice  of  the  mocldng-bird  which  called 
on  Leksho  to  live  ! " 

Crauford  turned  away,  but  in  another  moment 
he  addressed  the  maiden. 

"  Sebeganonshee  will  not  deceive  me,"  he  ob- 
served ;  "  she  will  not  shrink  from  looking  upon 
the  country  of  her  mother  ?  " 

"  Stranger,  I  have  said  it, — I  am  thine  !"  re- 
plied the  maiden,  sadly,  but  firmly.  "  Sebega- 
nonshee will  obey  thy  voice,  although  her  heart 
must  tarry  in  the  land  of  her  fathers.  Warrior 
of  a  mighty  nation,"  she  continued,  addressing 
th>5  Pawnee,  "  an  Indian  girl  leaves  thee  for  a 


THE  pawnee's  ransom  79 

shore  whence  the  voice  of  the  Wacondah"^  alone 
can  summon  her ;  but,  though  she  dwells  with 
those  of  another  color,  her  soul  will  be  glad  when 
it  shall  greet  thine  own  in  the  happy  land  of 
spirits  !  Why  should  we  talk  ?  The  fate  of 
man  is  like  the  rush  of  Niagara,  —  who  can  turn 
it?" 

The  maiden  spoke  of  resignation,  but,  when 
she  had  concluded,  she  bent  her  face  upon  her 
hands,  and  the  quickly-falling  tears  forced  their 
way  between  her  fingers.  Leksho  looked  for  a 
minute  on  her  anguish,  then,  fearing,  perchance, 
that  the  firmness  of  an  Indian  warrior  might  be 
compromised,  he  folded  his  arms  across  his  chest 
and  gazed  in  silence  on  the  ground. 

Crauford  regarded  them  with  feelings  of  but 
little  satisfaction  :  the  selfishness  which,  mingled 
with  romance,  had  hitherto  borne  him  on,  was 
waninof.  He  had  thousrht  that  the  life  which  he 
had  preservced  to  the  Pawnee  would  overbalance 
the  loss  of  the  bride  of  which  he  robbed  him; 
and  he  had  flattered  himself  that,  however  averse 
at  first,  Sebeganonshee  must  in  time  be  happier 
with  him  than  she  could  be  as  the  companion  of 
a  savage.  But  doubts  were  now  obtruding,  the 
game  was  in  his  own  hands  ;  he  might  do  all  as 
he  had  planned,  but  he  felt  that  the  happiness  of 

*  The  Great  Spirit. 


80  THE  pawnee's  ransom. 

two  of  his  fellow-creatures  would  be  the  sacri 
fice. 

Silence  hung  for  a  time  like  a  perceptible 
weight  on  the  atmosphere ;  it  was  first  broken  by 
the  Englishman,  who,  taking  her  unresisting 
hand,  led  the  maiden  to  the  Pawnee. 

"  I  give  her  back,"  he  said  :  "  Leksho,  she  is 
thine.  But  let  not  Sebeganonshee  forget  the 
stranger  when  he  ha>.  left  these  woods  forever  ' " 


81 


TO  A  VERY  YOUNG  HOUSEWIFE, 

BY     BERNARD    BARTON. 

To  write  a  book  of  Household  Song, 

Without  one  verse  to  thee, 
Whom  I  have  known  and  loved  so  long, 

Were  all  unworthy  me. 

Have  1  not  seen  thy  needle  plied 

With  as  much  ready  glee, 
As  if  it  were  thy  greatest  pi'ide 

A  seamstress  famed  to  be  ? 

Have  I  not  ate  pies,  puddings,  tarts, 
And  bread  —  thy  hands  had  kneaded 

iVll  excellent — as  if  those  arts 
Were  all  that  thou  hadst  heeded  ? 

Have  I  not  seen  thy  cheerful  smile, 
And  heard  thy  voice  —  as  gay 

As  if  such  household  cares,  the  whiJe, 
To  thee  were  sport  and  play  ? 

Yet  can  thy  pencil  copy  well 
Landscape,  or  flower,  or  face ; 

And  thou  canst  waken  music's  spell 
With  simple,  natural  grace. 


82  TO    A    VERY    YOUNG    HOUSEWIFE. 

Thus  variously  to  play  thy  part 
Before  thy  teens  are  spent, 

Honors  far  more  thy  head  and  heart 
Than  mere  accomplishment. 

So  wear  the  wreath  thou  well  hast  won, 

And  be  it  understood, 
I  frame  it  not  in  idle  fun 

For  girlish  womanhood. 

But  in  it  may  a  lesson  lurk, 
Worth  teaching  now-a-days ; 

That  girls  may  do  all  household  work, 
Nor  lose  a  poet's  praise  ! 


I  t    i  i  i 

>  J  J    J    J 


o    >     >  ,  ,> 


J    >     >  > 

jj   J  > ,  J 


TIK][E  V(S)IISK!(S    ^^DIF 


a*^ 


THE  COUNTRY  TAVERN 

BY    JAMES     T.     FIELDS. 


"  Those  who  know  the  road,  leave  behind  them  a  showy, 
porticoed  tavern,  nev/,  and  carefully  divested  of  all  trees  and 
grass,  and  pull  up  at  the  door  of  the  old  inn  at  the  place,  a 
low,  old-fashioned  house,  built  on  a  brook-side,  and  with  all 
the  appearance  of  a  comfortable  farm-house,  save  only  a  leaning 
and  antiquated  sign-post." — [Letters  from  under  a  Bridge.'^ 


It  is  a  rare  thing,  in  a  hot  summer  evening,  to 
alicrht  before  such  a  country  tavern  as  Willis  has 
described  in  his  admirable  "  Letters."  Yet  New 
England  especially  abounds  in  these  rural  resting 
places,  and  many  a  quiet  nook  may  be  discovered 
with  little  trouble,  not  a  half  day's  ride  from  Bos- 
ton. We  have  just  at  this  moment  in  our  mind's 
eye  a  delicious  tumble-down  old  house  in  Ber- 
wick, "  away  down  east,"  so  cool  and  refreshing 
that  the  most  weary  traveller  cannot  fail  to  recruit 
his  tired  limbs  inside  its  honest  old  walls.  We 
well  remember  the  hot,  dusty  day  which  first 
made  us  acquainted  with  this  hospitable  man- 
sion. We  had  ridden  many  a  weary  mile,  and 
iust  at  sun-down  came  upon  a  quaint,  old-fash- 
ioned building,  with  nothing  exterior  to  recom- 
mend it  but  the  bubbling  brook  which  ran  gaily 


84  THE    COUNTRY    TAVERN. 

along  at  its  side.  The  door  stood  wide  open, 
and  a  huge  flag-bottomed  chair  invited  the  passer- 
by to  seat  himself.  Shall  we  ever  forget  that 
trout  and  those  berries,  the  good-humored  face  of 
the  landlady,  the  merry,  twinkling  eyes  of  the 
good  man  himself,  or  the  low,  sanded  back  room 
where  all  these  were  gathered  together  ?  Let  us 
not  forget  the  cream  of  that  occasion  neither,  nor 
the  sweet  voice  of  the  damsel  who  brought  it, 
fresh  as  her  own  blooming  cheeks.  It  is  many 
a  year  since  that  sunny  afternoon  has  been 
numbered  with  the  days  that  are  past,  but  we 
can  still  hear  the  waving  of  the  elm  trees  that 
shaded  that  little  room,  and  the  sound  of  the 
running  streamlet  is  often  busy  as  we  sit  musing 
in  the  twilig-ht  of  a  summer  evening^.  We 
know  not  if  this  humble  dwelling  is  still  in  exist- 
ence. Perhaps  it  has  given  place  to  a  more 
modern  edifice,  rich  in  white  paint  and  stylish 
waiters.  But  here  is  the  tavern  as  we  saw  it ; 
the  same  thatched  roof  and  low  door-way ;  the 
identical  railing  in  front,  over  which  we  leaned, 
watching  the  nimble  insects  as  they  darted  in 
and  out  among  the  bending  rushes.  On  that 
crazy  fence  we  sat  enjoying  the  night  breeze 
as  it  swept  thither  from  the  hills  around,  and 
the  whole  scene  is  as  vivid  this  very  hour  as 
when  we  cut  our  name  on  the  old  apple-tree  in 
the  valley,  and  caught  our  first  trout  in  the  brook 
at  the  bottom  of  the  orchard. 


85 


WHITE  THORNE  FARM. 

BY   MISS   AGNES    STRICKLAND. 

Lucy  Marlow  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  the 
wheelwright,  whose  neat  workshops  and  well- 
stocked  yard  occupied  an  open  space  at  the  en« 
trance  of  the  village.  There  were  seven  in  the 
family  besides  Lucy ;  but  Isaac  Marlow  was  a 
thriving  mechanic,  and  his  children  constituted  a 
part  of  his  wealth ;  for  his  five  sons  assisted  him 
in  the  various  branches  of  his  craft,  which  com- 
prehended not  only  the  construction  of  wheels, 
but  every  description  of  agricultural  carriage, 
from  a  wheelbarrow  up  to  a  wagon.  Isaac 
Marlow  had  lost  his  wife,  but  her  place  in  the 
household  department  was  well  supplied  by  the 
active  exertions  of  his  daughter  Lucy,  who  con- 
ducted the  whole  of  the  domestic  affairs,  assisted 
by  a  stout  girl  of  fourteen,  who  had  been  appren- 
ticed to  her  father  from  the  workhouse.  Polly 
Jones  was  an  awkward,  uncivilized  creature  when 
she  first  arrived ;  for  the  children  reared  in  work- 
houses are  seldom  instructed  either  in  useful 
knowledge  or  decent  behavior,  which  is  the  rea- 
son why  they  are  so  often  harshly  treated  by  the 
pel  sons  to  whom  they  are  allottea.  Such  chil- 
S 


86  WHITE    THORNE    FARM. 

dren  are  indeed  deeply  to  be  pitied,  generally 
speaking ;  but  little  Polly  fell  into  kind  hands , 
and   though  at  first  she  was  very  stupid,  and 
broke  many  things  from  not  having  been  accus- 
tomed to  handle  glass  and  crockery  ware,  Lucy, 
by  the  exercise  of  a  little  patience  and  forbear- 
ance, and   some  judicious   encouragement,   suc- 
ceeded, in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  in  con- 
verting  her   young  dependent   into  a  valuable 
cooperator  in  her  household  labors,  and  in  con- 
sequence gained  time  to  educate  her  two  little 
sisters.    She  also  bestowed  instruction  in  reading, 
writing,  and  sewing,  on  Polly,  of  an  evening 
when  she  had  finished  her  allotted  task,  and  the 
morning  business  went  on  all  the  better  for  this 
indulgence.     Polly  soon  became  a  brisk,  handy, 
intelUgent  girl,  and  all  the  neighbors  congratu- 
lated Lucy  on  her  good  luck  in  meeting  with 
such  a  treasure,  not  considering  the  pains  Lucy 
had  taken  to  render  her  such. 

Lucy  was  of  a  serene  and  cheerful  temper,  and 
the  inward  sunshine  emanating  from  a  mind  at 
peace  with  itself,  and  the  constant  practice  of  vir- 
tuous though  often  laborious  duties,  gave  bright- 
ness to  her  eyes,  lightness  to  her  step,  and  a 
sweetness  of  expression  to  her  countenance,  far 
more  attractive  than  beauty.  Lucy  was,  how- 
ever, very  prepossessing  both  in  her  manners  and 
Dcrson,  and  her  dress  was  always  so  exquisitely 


WHITE    TIIORNE    FARM.  87 

neat,  that  she  was  universally  admired  whep 
seen,  which  was  but  seldom,  beyond  the  precincts 
of  the  productive  little  garden  that  had  been  cre- 
ated partly  by  her  own  exertions  on  a  slip  of 
waste  land  between  the  dwelling-house  and  her 
father's  yard.  Seldom  did  any  young  farmer  in 
want  of  a  wife  ride  past  on  his  way  to  Scrapeton 
corn-market,  without  pausing  and  thrusting  his 
own,  and  of  course  his  horse's,  head  and  neck 
over  Isaac  Marlow's  gate,  as  if  to  contemplate  the 
merits  of  the  carts,  rollers,  and  gaily  painted 
wagons,  that  were  drawn  forth  in  thai  yard  to 
tempt  the  agricultural  purchaser ;  but,  truth  to 
tell,  more  glances  were  directed  towards  the  rows 
of  cabbages,  lettuces,  or  it  might  be  the  tall  lilies 
and  flaunting  sun-flowers,  that  flourished  in  the 
trim  garden  in  the  background,  where  Lucy 
Mariow  sometimes  might  be  seen  engaged  in  her 
horticultural  pursuits,  assisted  by  her  little  sisters 
Jane  and  Anne.  But,  notwithstanding  these 
errant  glances,  Lucy  had  attained  her  twenty- 
third  year  without  any  other  token  of  the  power 
of  her  charms,  and  it  was  the  opinion  of  Lucy's 
five  great  brothers  that  Lucy  would  be  an  old 
maid ;  moreover,  one  of  them  had  the  incivility 
to  tell  her  so. 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  for  the  benefit  of  my  family 
if  I  am,"  was  Lucy's  meek  reply;  "  but,  in  truth, 
Hodge,  I  hardly  know  what  my  father  and  th? 


88  WHITE    THOKNE    FARM. 

jittle  ones  would  do  without  me  if  I  were  to  map 
ry,  of  which,  as  you  say,  there  is  at  present  littla 
chance,"  she  added. 

The  fact  was,  Lucy  had  never  given  the 
slisfhtest  encouraofement  to  those  who  were  wil- 
ling  to  attract  her  regard,  because  her  heart  had 
been  secretly  won  by  the  silent  but  unmistakable 
attentions  of  a  young  man,  who  she  feared  would 
not  be  permitted  by  his  friends  to  consult  his 
affections  in  the  choice  of  a  wife  ;  for  Charles 
Rushmere  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  man  of  sordid 
habits,  who  had  amassed  a  considerable  property 
by  farming,  and  considered  the  increase  of  riches 
as  the  only  duty  in  life. 

Old  Mr.  Rushmere  lived  in  a  distant  parish, 
but  had  purchased  a  fine  farm  at  Woodfield  for 
Charles  to  employ  himself  in  cultivating  for  their 
mutual  profit  Charles  Rushmere  was  a  young 
man  of  excellent  morals,  benevolent,  handsome, 
spirited,  and  industrious,  farmed  in  what  was 
considered  a  good  style,  rode  well,  and  was  reck- 
oned the  agricultural  Adonis  of  the  village.  All 
the  damsels  in  his  degree  were  disposed  to  set 
their  caps  at  him,  and  their  mothers  said,  "  Poor 
Mr.  Charles  Rushmere  must  lead  a  very  dull  life 
at  Whitethorn  farm  without  any  one  to  take  care 
of  him  except  old  Sukey  Scratchit,  his  house- 
keeper, and  it  would  be  quite  a  charity  to  ask 
him  to  tea  in  a  friendly  way  now  and  then."    Sd 


WHITE    THORNE    FARM.  S9 

poor  Ml.  Charles  Eushmere  was  charitably  in- 
vited to  tea-drinkings  in  the  parish,  too  numerous 
lor  us  to  record,  and  all  the  ''  young  ladies,"  as 
per  courtesy  the  daughters  of  the  farmers  and 
shopkeepers  of  Woodfield  were  called,  did  their 
best  in  turn  to  make  impressions  on  the  heart  of 
the  handsome  heir  of  the  rich  old  miser  o^ 
Scrapeton  Grange. 

Between  Michaelmas  and  Christmas,  Mr. 
Charles  Eushmere  had  heard  all  the  jingling- 
piano-fortes,  and  assisted  in  turning  over  all  the 
blue  and  pink  and  orange-colored  leaves  of  all 
the  rival  scrap-books  in  Woodfield,  and  stared  at 
all  the  monstrous  cupids,  pincushion-roses,  lap- 
sided  butterflies,  and  gaudy  groups  of  oriental 
tmted  flowers  and  bad  prints  they  contained ; 
also,  he  had  with  astonishing  want  of  tact  yielded 
obedience  to  sundry  hypocritical  entreaties  not  to 
read  some  halting  rhymes  to  the  honor  and  glory 
of  the  respective  o\vners  of  these  show-ofl'  vol- 
umes. When  Christmas  came,  Mr.  Charles 
Eushmere  was  invited  to  a  series  of  dances  both 
public  and  private,  at  which  he  enjoyed  the 
felicity  of  exhibiting  his  locomotive  powers  with 
every  damsel  in  Woodford  successively,  except 
the  only  one  whom  he  considered  worth  a  second 
thought,  and  that  was  the  meek  and  modest 
Lucy  Marlow.  But  Lucy  never  went  to  dinces 
or  gay  tea-drinkings ;  her  time  was  so  fully 
8* 


90  WHITE    THORNE    FARM. 

occupied  with  the  duties  of  her  father's  house- 
hold, and  the  instruction  of  her  young  sisters 
besides  taking  care  of  her  brothers'  linen,  that 
she  never  had  a  moment  to  spare  for  other  recre- 
ation than  the  cultivation  of  the  garden,  and 
sometimes  a  quiet  walk  in  the  meadows  with 
her  father,  sisters,  and  her  little  maid,  on  Sunday 
evenino^s  after  church. 

Charles  Rushmere  sat  in  the  next  pew  to  that 
which  was  occupied  by  the  honest  wheelwright 
and  his  family,  and  soon  got  into  a  similar  habit 
of  rambling  in  the  meadows  after  they  came  out 
of  church,  "  to  help  him  to  digest  the  sermon, 
and  get  an  appetite  for  his  tea,"  as  he  facetiously 
observed  to  Isaac  Marlow,  as  if  to  account  for 
this  practice.  The  wheelwright,  who  had  his 
eldest  daughter,  and  pride  and  delight  of  his 
heart,  on  his  arm,  and  had  observed  that  their 
new  neighbor's  eyes  had  been  oftener  turned  on 
her  sweet  face  than  on  his  prayer-book  during 
the  service  for  many  Sundays,  had  his  own  ideas 
on  the  motives  of  Charles  Rushmere  in  joining 
them  in  their  family  walk ;  but  the  young  man 
was  so  respectful  and  engaging  in  his  manners, 
and  confined  his  discourse  so  entirely  to  himself 
or  the  little  girls  during  these  rambles,  that  Isaac 
Marlow  had  no  pretence  for  offering  an  objection 
to  his  company  on  such  occasions.  One  even- 
mg,  when  they  reached  Marlow's  gate,  Clxirles 


WHITE    THORNE    FARM.  9l 

Rushmere  said,  "  I  should  consider  it  a  great 
privilege  il  I  were  permitted  to  make  one  at  your 
tea-table  to-night,  Miss  Lucy." 

Lucy  looked  down  and  replied,  "  That  it  was 
one  of  the  rules  of  their  family  not  to  admit  of 
Sunday  visitors,  because  the  evening  of  that  day 
was  devoted  to  the  religious  instruction  of  the 
children  and  the  maid." 

"  Perhaps,"  observed  Charles,  with  some  degree 
of  pique,  "I  should  be  equally  unwelcome  on  any 
other  evening  ?  " 

Lucy  blushed  and  said,  "  That  must  depend 
on  what  her  father  thought." 

"  My  good  sir,"  said  the  wheelwright,  "  we 
are  only  members  of  what  may  be  considered  the 
working  class,  and  you  are  the  son  of  a  rich 
man,  one  who  is  said  to  make  some  claim  to  the 
rank  of  a  squire,  and  would  probably  consider  us 
very  much  beneath  you ;  therefore  we  must 
decline  your  company  as  a  visitor  at  our  humble 
board." 

After  this  conversation,  Charles  Rushmere 
ceased  to  join  the  wheehvright  and  his  family  in 
their  Sunday  walks.  He  even  went  out  of 
church  by  another  door,  and  for  three  months 
looked  at  his  book  all  prayer  time,  and  at  the 
parson  during  the  sermon,  instead  of  bestowing 
his  devotions  on  his  fair  neighbor.  Lucy  began 
to  think  it  v^ould  have  been  well  if  he  had  never 


92  WHITE    THORNE    FARM. 

done  otherwise,  for  she  considered  that  Charles 
Rushmere  ought  to  have  respected  both  her  father 
and  herself  the  more  for  the  motives  which  led 
them  to  decline  his  overtures  ;  and  so  Charles 
did  really,  but,  like  many  other  lovers,  he  had 
anything  but  an  agreeable  way  of  receiving  a 
necessary  repulse.  Then  he  got  angry  and  jea- 
lous on  the  score  of  the  bachelor  agriculturist 
whom  he  saw  bestowing  so  much  more  attention 
on  Isaac  Marlow's  carts  and  wagons  than  he  con- 
sidered at  all  requisite,  and  at  last  took  the  reso- 
lution of  ordering  one  of  those  two-wheeled  farm- 
ing carriages  yclept  in  East- Anglian  parlance  a 
tumbril,  as  an  excuse  for  obtaining  admittance 
into  the  domicile  over  which  the  wheelwright's 
pretty  daughter  was  the  presiding  genius.  Charles 
Rushmere  chose  a  Saturday  evening,  after  he 
had  paid  his  people,  ab  ihe  time  for  this  impor- 
tant transaction,  partly  m  the  hope  that  he  might 
find  Lucy  alone,  and  partly  with  a  half  malicious 
intention  of  catching  the  young  housekeeper  ip 
that  state  of  confusion  with  regard  to  the  domes- 
tic arrangements  which  in  Suflblk  is  expressly 
called  a  muddle.  But  Lucretia  herself,  when  her 
excellent  housewifery  was  put  to  the  test  by  the 
unexpected  visit  of  her  lord  and  his  roy  .1  com- 
panions, appeared  not  to  greater  advantage  spin- 
ning and  carding  among  her  maidens  than  did  the 
wheelwright's  fair  daughter  sitting  tranquilljr  by 


WHITE    THORNE    FARM.  9& 

ihe  bright  fire  and  clean  hearth  of  the  freshly- 
swept  and  garnished  stone  kitchen,  in  her  neat 
brown  merino  dress  and  plain  white  collar,  super- 
intending and  assisting  in  darning  the  hose  of 
the  males  of  the  family  with  her  sisters. 

Any   of    the    "young   ladies"   of  Woodfield 
would  have  been  ready  to  faint  at  the  idea  of 
being    surprised    at   such    vulgar    employment. 
Lucy  certainly  blushed,  and  allowed  her  ball  of 
blue  mottled-yarn  to  roll  from  her  lap  to  the  other 
end  of  the  kitchen,  but  her  confusion  proceeded 
from  pleasure   at   the    sight  of  the  unexpected 
visitor,  not  shame  at  having  been  discovered  in 
the  performance  of  one  of  her  duties.     Charles 
instantly  rescued  the  ball  from  the  impertinent 
playfulness  of  a  sonsy  pet  kitten  that  had  just 
pounced  upon  it,  and  presented  it  to  Lucy  with 
the  air  of  a  Paladin. 

"  You  find  us  very  busy,"  said  Lucy,  as  with 
a  downcast  glance  she  received  this  little  act  of 
attention;  "but  we  ahvays  finish  the  week  with 
our  odd  jobs." 

"  Lucy,"  said  little  Jane,  "  I  do  think  Hodge 
always  makes  such  a  great  hole  in  the  toe  of  his 
stocking  on  purpose.     I  never  can  mend  this." 

"  Then  give  it  to  me,  dear,  and  run  the  thin 
place  on  the  foot  of  Robert's  sock.  That  is  easy 
work  for  you,"  returned  Lucy. 

)harles  cast  an   observing  glance  on  Lucy's 


G] 


94  TV'HITE    THORNE    FARM. 

proceedings,  and  thought  how  differently  Sukey 
Scratchit  would  have  conducted  herself  if  he  had 
presumed  to  wear  holes  in  his  stockings  of  such 
provoking  magnitude  for  her  Saturday  evening's 
amusement. 

"  Hallo,  Lucy !  are  you  giving  the  young 
squire  a  lesson  in  darning  stockings?"  cried 
Isaacr  Marlow,  in  surprise,  as  he  entered,  on  per- 
ceiving Charles  Rushmere's  curly  head  peeping 
over  his  daughter's  shoulder,  his  lips  pursed  up, 
and  his  round,  blue  eye  intently  fixed  on  the  pro- 
cess of  crossing  the  villanous  hole  in  the  toe  of 
Hodge's  Sunday  hose. 

It  was  now  Charles'  turn  to  blush,  and  he  did 
blush-scarlet  red  as  he  stammered  out,  in  a  gen- 
uine Suffolk  whine,  "  Mr.  Marlow,  sir,  I  hope 
you  will  excuse  me,  but  I  have  come  to  talk  to 
you  about  a  new  tumbril." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Isaac  Marlow,  rubbing  his 
hands,  "  that  is  a  very  excusable  offence  ;    but 
why  did  you  not  come  to  the  workshop  at  once 
where  you  were  sure  of  finding  me  ?  " 

It  did  not  suit  the  young  man  to  explain  his 
reasons ;  so  he  said,  "  he  could  go  and  look  in 
the  workshop  then,  if  it  suited  Mr.  Marlow." 

"  No,"  said  Marlow,  "  we  have  shut  up  for  the 
night,  and  to-morrow  is  Sunday ;  but  I  shall  he 
very  happy  to  receive  your  order.  Master  Charles, 


WniTi.    THORNE    FARM.  95 

or  mayhap  I  have  a  tumbril  in  the  yard  that  may 
suit  you." 

"  I  will  come  and  talk  farther  on  the  subject  on 
Monday,"  said  Charles,  casting  a  glance  of  intel- 
ligence at  Lucy. 

"  Then  be  pleased  to  come  to  me  in  the  work- 
shop or  yard,  if  you  do,"  returned  the  cautious 
father,  who  had  detected  the  telegr^hing  between 
the  lovers. 

"  It  is  not  every  farmer  who  enters  this  house 
who  is  willing  to  order  a  new  tumbril  of  you,  Mr. 
Marlow,"  rejoined  the  young  man. 

"  Mine  honored  customer,  there  is  a  time  for  all 
things,  and  a  place  too  in  my  business  for  receiv- 
ing orders,  and  that  is  the  workshop,  where  I 
shall  be  very  proud  of  waiting  on  you." 

Charles  was  inwardly  malcontent  at  Isaac 
Marlow's  independent  way  of  doing  business 
with  him,  and  half  disposed  not  to  give  his  order 
at  all,  especially  as  he  was  in  no  particular  need 
of  a  new  tumbril,  and  he  knew  his  father  would 
consider  such  a  purchase  a  great  piece  of  extrav- 
agance. However,  he  recollected  that  it  would 
afford  him  a  very  plausible  pretext  for  loitering 
in  the  precincts  of  Lucy's  dwelling,  if  he  were  not 
permitted  to  enter  it.  So,  on  the  Monday  morn- 
ing, the  order  was  given,  and  once  a  week  a« 
least  he  put  on  his  smart  green  shooting-frock 
and  bright-colored  leathers,  and  walked  into  the 


96  WHITE    THOKNE    FABM. 

wheelwright's  yard  with  the  free  and  easy  air  of 
a  person  who  had  now  a  right  to  come  there,  and 
inquii-ed  "  how  they  were  getting  on  with  his 
new  tumbril  ? "  Marlow's  sons  thought  this  an 
exceedingly  good  joke ;  but  the  wheelwright 
shook  his  head,  and  replied  at  last,  "  not  the  bet- 
ter for  your  coining  so  often  to  trouble  us  about 
it,  Master  Charles,  and  we  are  making  all  the 
haste  we  can  to  get  it  ofl'the  premises." 

Charles  considered  this  obserration  very  un- 
civil, and  in  return  caused  as  many  artificial 
delays  as  he  could,  by  coimnaudino^  a  variety  of 
alterations,  and  changing  his  mind  twice  or 
thrice  as  to  the  color  he  willed  it  to  be  painted 
and  all  for  the  sake  of  standing  opposite  Lucy's 
window  while  he  discussed  these  points,  which 
were  considered  by  Isaac  Marlow  as  very  blama- 
ble  innovations  in  the  orthodox  plan  of  building 
tumbrils.  All  the  farmers  who  were  accustomed 
to  look  over  Marlow's  gate  thought  so  too,  and 
the  fancies  of  youn?  Charles  Rushmere  about  his 
new  tumbril  became  at  length  the  talk  of  the 
three  adjoining  parishes.  In  due  course  the  re- 
port reached  the  ears  of  Mr.  Rushmere  senior ; 
and  one  bright  morning,  when  Charles,  regardless 
of  Isaac  Marlow's  repeated  intimations  that  his 
tumbril  had  long  been  finished  and  ought  to  be 
removed,  entered  the  yard  with  the  intention  of 
suggesting  another  alteration,  he  found  his  fathei 


WHITE    THORNE    FARM.  9? 

Standing  before  the  said  tumbril,  and  surveying  ii 
with  a  sarcastic  countenance. 

"  I  have  done  myself  the  honor  of  coming  from 
Scrapeton  Grange  this  morning,"  said  he,  "  to 
look  at  this  precious  article,  which  has  afforded  a 
theme  for  so  many  flattering  remarks  on  the 
wisdom  of  my  eldest  son." 

"  I  hope,  sir,  that  it  meets  with  your  approba- 
tion," returned  Charles,  endeavoring  to  assume 
an  air  of  nonchalance. 

"  No,  sir,  you  don't  hope  any  such  thing;  for 
you  know  me  too  well  to  suppose  I  can  approve 
of  such  needless  folly  and  extravagance,"  retorted 
the  old  man,  with  an  ireful  glance  ;  "  and  pray," 
continued  he,  "  how  do  you  think  it  is  ever  to  be 
paid  for  ?" 

"  I  shall  pay  for  it  out  of  my  share  of  the  prof- 
its of  White  Thorne  farm." 

"  Oh,  you  will,  sir  ?  Then  let  me  tell  you 
that  if  you  turn  my  liberality  to  so  poor  an  ac- 
count, you  shall  have  no  farm  to  gain  any  profits 
from  another  year,  but  your  brother  Frank  shall 
come  to  White  Thorne  farm,  and  you  shall  return 
home  to  take  the  laboring  oar  at  Scrapeton  Grange 
under  my  own  eye." 

"  As  you  please,  sir,"  said  Charles. 

"  No,  sir ;    it  is  not  as  I  please,  for   Sukey 
Scratchit,  whom  I  sent  here  to  take  care  of  you 
and  your  house,  tells  me  that  you  are  tired  of  her 
9 


9S  WHITE    THORKE    FARM. 

and  want  to  bring  home  a  wife  to  White  Thome 


farm." 


*'  She  only  tells  you  the  truth,  sir,"  rejoinea 
the  young  man.  "  I  have  bestowed  my  affections 
on  the  prettiest,  the  most  sensible,  and  the  most 
industrious  girl  in  the  parish,  and  if  you  are  the 
good  father  I  have  ever  had  reason  to  consider 
you,  you  will  not  oppose  my  wish  to  make  Lucy 
Marlow  my  wife." 

"  Very  fine  talking,  but  I  have  not  labored  all 
my  life  to  gain  wealth  that  you  might  throw  ^^our- 
self  away  on  a  beggarly  wheelwTight's  girl,"  re- 
plied the  elder  Rushmere;  and  taking  Charles  by 
the  arm,  he  led  him  out  of  Marlow's  yard. 
Charles  could  have  wept  with  shame  and  morti- 
fication at  the  thought  of  x  such  a  scene  taking 
place  there  —  within  hearing  of  Lucy's  brothers, 
too  !  Fortunately,  Isaac  Marlow  was  absent  that 
day  purchasing  timber,  or  the  taunts  of  the  sordid 
rich  man  would  not  have  passed  unanswered. 
There  was  a  cloud  on  his  brow  when  he  sat 
down  to  supper  that  night,  for  his  sons  had  related 
the  particulars  of  this  annoying  affair  to  him, 
as  they  had  before  done  to  Lucy.  Lucy's  eyes 
were  swollen  with  weeping.  Her  pride  and  deli- 
cacy had  been  deeply  wounded,  and  she  feared 
?he  had  incurred  her  father's  displeasure  ;  but 
she  had  no  cause  for  apprehension.  Isaac  Mar- 
low was  a  just  man  and  a  kind  parent,  and  when 


WHITE    THORNE    FARM.  9& 

she  came  to  kiss  him  before  they  parted  for  the 
night,  he  patted  her  cheek  affectionately,  and 
said,  "  Cheer  up,  my  Lucy ;  you  have  been  a 
good  girl  and  a  prudent  one.  No  one  has  been 
to  blame  but  Charles  Rushmere,  in  playing  such 
boy's  tricks  about  that  foolish  tumbril,  and  per- 
haps I  was  worse  than  he  for  taking  his  order. 
However,  the  tumbril  is  a  good  one,  and  I  shall 
dispose  of  it  to  another  person ;  so  that  need  not 
trouble  old  Rushmere." 

The  next  day  Isaac  Marlow  wrote  word  t:. 
Charles  Rushmere,  "  that,  as  he  understood  his 
father  disapproved  of  the  order  he  had  given  him, 
he  had  sold  the  article  to  a  fancy  farmer  from 
London,  and  hoped  he  v/ould  have  no  farther  un- 
easiness about  it." 

"  I  hope  he  may  dispose  of  his  girl  to  the  fancj 
farmer  from  London,  as  well  as  the  tumbril,"  was 
the  elder  Rushmere's  obliging  comment  on  honest 
Mario w's  communication.  Charles  turned  pale 
with  vexation  ;  for  the  fancy  farmer,  who  was  the 
son  of  a  rich  London  mercer,  and  had  recently 
turned  an  ancient  farm-house  into  a  modern 
Gothic  cottage,  with  a  Grecian  portico,  orna- 
mented in  the  Egyptian  style,  had  created  a  far 
greater  sensation  among  the  rural  nymphs  of 
Woodfield  than  ever  Charles  had  done,  and  he 
feared  he  might  prove  a  formidable  rival  in  the 
heart  of  Lucy  during  his  a  isence  from  the  scena 


iOO  WHITE    THORNE    FARM. 

The  elder  Mr.  Rushmere  insisted  on  his  giving 
up  White  Thome  farm  for  the  present  to  his  bro- 
ther, and  returning  to  the  Grange.  Mr.  Eush- 
mere  had  cause  to  repent  of  this  arrangement,  for 
his  son  Frank,  instead  of  bringing  him  either 
rent  or  profits  from  the  farm,  pursued  a  head- 
long career  of  dissipation  as  soon  as  he  found 
himself  in  some  degree  his  own  master,  formed 
an  intimacy  with  the  fancy  farmer  from  London, 
ordered  his  clothes  of  a  Bond  street  tailor  of  his 
recommending,  set  his  father  and  Sukey  Scratchit 
at  defiance,  gave  convivial  parties  at  his  bachelor 
abode,  and  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  years  deeply 
involved  himself  in  debt,  and  finished  his  career 
by  breaking  his  neck  at  a  steeple-chase,  which,  as 
Sukey  Scratchit  consolingly  observed  to  his  father 
when  she  comnmnicatcd  the  tragical  event  to 
him,  "  was  the  most  sensihlest  thing  he  had  done 
since  he  cn^-^Q  lo  live  at  White  Thome  farm,  and 
very  convenient  for  his  family  just  at  that  time, 
for  if  he  had  only  lived  another  week,  he  was 
going  to  marry  the  sister  of  the  fancy  farmer's 
housekeeper,  a  very  unworthy  character  as  she 
understood  ;  and  then,"  pursued  she,  "  all  the 
money  you  have  been  scrubbing  (Suffolk  for 
scraping)  together  would  have  gone,  you  may 
guess  where  ;  for  poor  Master  Charles  aint  likely 
to  want  it  long,  as  I  guesses  by  the  look  of  him ; 
and  so,  as  I  say,  it 's  all  as  it  should  be,  and  you 


WHITE    TIIOKISE    FAIJM.  101    . 

will  have  plenty  of  time  to  look  about'  yo'a  for  an 
heir  after  poor  Master  Charles  is  dead  and  his 
finer ol  is  over." 

"  Does  the  woman  mean  to  drive  me  mad  by 
telling  me  of  the  death  of  one  of  my  boys  and  the 
funeral  of  the  other  in  the  same  breath?"  ex- 
claimed the  miserable  rich  man  of  Scrapeton 
Grange. 

"  Why,  lauk,  sir,  don't  put  yourself  out  with 
me,  pray,  for  I  'm  sure  I  meant  no  offence  by  just 
giving  you  a  hint,  now  we  are  talking  of  ihe 
death  of  Master  Frank,  that  you  ought  not  to  set 
your  mind  too  much  on  his  brother,  for  if  you 
have  n't  noticed  his  horrid  bad  looks,  and  his 
tisicking  cough,  all  the  three  parishes  have,  and 
they  all  lay  the  blame  on  your  shoulders,  'cause 
they  say  he  is  breaking  his  heart  for  the  love  of 
Lucy  Mario w  and  the  loss  of  White  Thorne  farm 
together,  and  you  would  have  been  a  happier, 
and,  more  than  that,  a  richer  man,  if  you  had 
let  him  have  them  both,  say  I." 

"  Why,  you  vile  old  pick-thank,  whose  fault 
was  it  that  I  ever  heard  a  parcel  of  tales  about  my 
son  Charles  ? " 

"  Your  own,  to  be  sure,  sir,  for  lending  an  ear 
to  a  set  of  envious  serpents  who  came  to  set  you 
against  your  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"  Were  not  you  at  the  very  head  of  ear-wig 

ging  me,  you  deceitful  old  hag?" 
9# 


,'  1 


109 


WKJTE    THORNE    FARBI. 


"WKat/I,  Sir!  —  well,  it  is  a  fine  thing  to 
have  some  one  to  lay  your  evil  deeds  on.  As  true 
as  I  'm  alive,  I  always  said  Master  Charles  was 
my  favorite,  and  well  he  might  be,  for  a  nicer, 
quieter  young  fellow  in  a  house  I  never  waited 
upon.  Always  home  and  in  bed  by  ten  o'clock  ; 
always  up  by  five  in  the  morning,  and  seeing 
after  his  men,  and  worked  harder  than  any  of 
them.  We  had  no  harum-scarum  doing's  with 
him.  He  had  set  his  mind  on  a  proper  good 
girl,  and  that  was  what  kept  him  so  steady,  for  he 
bore  in  mind  king  Solomon's  proverb,  '  a  virtuous 
woman  is  a  crown  of  glory  to  her  husband's 
head.'" 

The  awful  termination  of  Frank  Rushmere's 
reckless  career  caused  much  excitement  in  the 
parish  of  Woodfield,  but  a  more  general  sensation 
of  sorrow  was  created  by  the  pale  and  melancholy 
appearance  of  Charles  Rushmere  at  his  brother's 
funeral. 

Lucy's  brothers  told  her  he  was  certainly  in  a 
deep  decline,  and  Lucy,  instead  of  sleeping, 
bathed  her  pillow  in  tears  that  night.  The  next 
day  was  a  beautiful  May  morning;  the  sun 
shone  brightly,  the  bees  were  humming  gaily 
among  the  newly-opened  flowers  in  Lucy  s  little 
garden,  and  the  birds  carolled  forth  their  songs 
of  joy  in  the  white-blossomed  cherry-trees,  and 
the  old  elms  that  overshadowed  the  dwelling; 


WHITE    THORNE    FARM.  103 

her  young  sisters  were  playing  with  their  pet 
lamb  on  the  grass-plot,  and  the  kitten  frisking 
round  them.     Everythinof  seemed  cheerful  and 
happy  except  poor  Lucy. 

"  And  now,"  said  she  to  her  father,  after  the 
rest  of  the  family  had  gone  out  from  breakfast, 
"  it  is  worse  for  me  than  if  I  had  permitted 
Charles  Rushraere  to  court  me." 

"  Not  so,  my  Lucy ;  you  have  obeyed  your 
father,  and  your  conscience  is  free  from  offence," 
leplied  Isaac  Marlow.  "  Have  patience,  Lucy, 
and  things  may  even  yet  work  together  for  your 
good." 

"  Ah,"  "said  Lucy,  "  how  is  it  to  be  if  Charles 
Kushmere  dies?" 

"  He  is  worth  many  dead  men  yet,"  returned 
her  father. 

Lucy  was  glad  to  busy  herself  in  putting  away 
the  breakfast  things  to  conceal  her  tears.  While 
she  was  thus  occupied,  her  sisters  came  running 
in,  crying,  "  Oh,  Lucy,  Lucy,  what  do  you  think! 
—  old  Mr.  Rushmere  has  sent  the  drollest,  high- 
backed,  old  green  shay-cart  you  ever  saw,  to  fetch 
you  to  Scrapeton  Grange  this  morning." 

"  Has  he  sent  it  for  me  ? "  exclaimed  Lucy, 
turning  pale.     "  Are  you  sure  of  that,  Anne  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  the  old  man  v/ho  has  come  to 
drive  you  told  us  so,  and  begged  that  you  v/ould 
::o'\ie  as  quickly  as  possible,  for  his  master  did 


104  WHITE    THOKNE    FARM. 

not  wish  him  to  lose  half  a  day's  work  if  it  crold 
be  helped." 

"Father,"  said  Lucy,  "  may  I  go  ?" 

"  Go,  my  child,"  replied  her  father,  ''  if  it  is 
your  wish." 

Jane  had  already  flown  to  fetch  her  sister's 
Sunday  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  Lucy,  who  was 
always  neat,  tarried  not  to  make  any  change  in 
her  household  garb  ;  but  alm.ost  before  Mr.  Rush- 
mere's  envoy  thought  she  had  been  made  ac- 
quaiPxted  with  the  nature  of  his  errand,  she  came 
forth  in  readiness  to  obey  the  welcome  summons. 
Jonas  gave  her  an  approving  smile,  and  nodded 
to  himself  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the  antiquated 
vehicle  by  his  side  ;  and  as  they  jolted  and  rum- 
bled together  out  of  the  yard,  Polly  Jones  testified 
her  lively  sympathy  and  good  will  towards  her 
young  mistress,  by  throwing  an  old  shoe  after  her 
for  luck.  Lucy  was  half  way  on  the  road  to 
Scrapeton  before  she  could  command  her  voice 
to  ask  old  Jonas  how  Mr.  Charles  Rushmere 
was. 

"  Lord  love  your  heart,  he  '11  do  well  enough 
now,  I  '11  warrant  him,"  W£ls  the  cheering  reply 
of  the  sagacious  driver. 

"  Then  he  is  not  dying  ? " 

"  Oh,  lauk,  no,  miss !  nor  half  so  bad  as  I 
was  when  I  was  crossed  in  love  fifty  years  ago. 
I  tell  you  what,  miss,  I  have  heard  of  some  yo'jna 


WHITE    THORNE    FARBI.  105 

women  as  have  fretted  themselves  to  dead  for 
sick  like ;  but  men  ar'  n't  so  tender-hearted  :  for, 
you  see,  miss,  they  has  other  things  to  occupy 
their  time  and  thoughts.  Not,  miss,  but  what  oui 
young  master  have  vexed  kisself  good  tidily  about 
you,  and  so  our  master  thinks,  or  else  he  would 
not  have  bundled  me  off  so  early  this  morning  to 
fetch  you.  But  our  Sukey  is  partly  to  be  thanked 
for  that,  for  she  put  it  into  his  head  that  Master 
Charles  would  have  a  faver  or  information  of  the 
heart  with  fretting  so  about  you,  miss.  Master 
fared  very  queer,  I  promise  you,  when  he  heard 
that  on  the  night  after  his  other  son's  fineral  too. 
*  So,'  says  he,  '  there  's  a  real  physicshin  from 
London  now  at  the  Angel,  what  came  to  see  old 
my  lord,  and  we  '11  hear  what  he  thinks  of  Mas- 
ter Charles ;  run,  Jonas,  and  tell  him  to  step  this 
way.'  So  I  gived  the  doctor  a  bit  of  a  hint  as 
we  comed  along;  and -wdien  he  had  felt  our 
young  master's  pulse,  he  looked  wherry  solemn, 
and  shaked  his  head.  Says  he,  '  It  is  all  in  the 
heart,  which  have  brought  on  alarming  simpkbis 
of  another  natu,  for  which  I  must  \vi'ite  a  des- 
cription.^ Then  our  master,  when  he  had  got 
the  description  made  out,  though  he  could  not 
read  one  word  of  it,  was  forced  to  give  doctor  a 
golden  guinea ;  for  this  was  a  real  physicshin  wot 
was  staying  at  the  Angel,  you  know.  Well,  the 
description  did  our  young  master  no  good  at  all 


106  WHITE    THORNE    FARM. 

as  how  should  it?  Then  says  old  Sukey,  says 
she,  '  I  can  give  you  the  best  descriptiofi  for 
Master  Charles  after  all,  only  ^'■ou  won't  be  ruled 
by  me  sir,  I  s'pose.'  '  But,'  says  master, 
'  Sukey,  I  wool,  if  you  are  sure  it  won't  be  too 
late.'  Then  says  she  to  master  again,  '  While 
there's  life  there's  hope,  and  to  be  sure  you 
won't  be  a  Barbarous  Allen  to  your  own  son,  now 
he 's  like  to  lie  on  his  young  deathbed  ? ' 

"  Master  took  her  meaning,  and  told  me  to  get 
out  the  old  shay-can,  and  brush  it  up  a  bit,  which 
was  only  decent  for  me  to  do,  for  it  had  stood  on 
one  side  in  the  cart-shed  ever  since  our  mistress' 
fineral,  and  the  hens  had  got  to  roost  along  the 
high  back  of  it,  so  that  I  had  fine  work  to  clean 
it  up,  as  you  may  s'pose  ;  and  when  I  had  got  it 
a  little  tidy,  and  dusted  the  cushions,  he  ordered 
me  to  go  and  fetch  you.  Miss  Lucy,  the  first 
thinq-  in  the  morninq-." 

Jonas  had  never  in  all  his  life  met  mth  an  au- 
ditor who  listened  to  his  prosing  with  the  interest 
the  lovelorn  Lucy  bestowed  on  his  narrative. 

When  Lucy  arrived  at  Scrapeton  Grange,  she 
felt  some  trepidation  at  the  anticipation  of  an  in- 
terview with  the  father  of  her  lover,  but  Jonas,  as 
if  guessing  her  thoughts,  said,  "  Apray,  miss 
don't  go  to  frighten  yourself  about  our  master,  for 
't  ain't  at  all  likely  you  '11  see  him.'' 

'■  How  so  ?  "  demanded  Lucy,  in  surprise. 


WHITE    THOENE    FARM.  107 

"  Why,  our  master  is  a  very  queer  old  fellow 
out  I  says  nothing." 

Mrs.  Sukey  Scratchit  now  came  forth  in  hei 
CiSan  starched  muslin  apron  and  high-crowned 
cap,  to  receive  and  welcome  Lucy,  and  to  act  as 
mistress  of  the  ceremonies  in  ushering  her  into 
the  presence  of  her  sick  lover. 

Charles  Eushmere,  when  the  weeping  Lucy 
approached  the  old-fashioned  s;  I'ee  on  which  his 
emaciated  form  reclined,  drew  her  gently  to  him, 
and  whispered, 

"  She  came  ;  his  cold  hand  softly  touched, 
And  bathed  with  many  a  tear  ; 
Fast  falling  o'er  the  primrose  pale 
So  morning  dews  appear." 

*'  Ah,  Charles,  if  you  only  knew  how  often  1 
have  cried  over  that  ballad  of  late  ! "  sobbed  Lucy, 
in  the  fullness  of  her  heart. 

"  If  you  please.  Miss  Marlow,"  interrupted 
Mistress  Sukey,  putting  her  head  in  at  the  door, 
"  master  desires  his  compliments  to  you,  and 
hopes  you  will  excuse  his  dming  at  home  to-day, 
if  so  be  as  you  and  Master  Charles  can  make 
yourselves  comfortable  to  dine  together  alone  on 
roast  fowl,  with  white  bacon  and  egg-sauce,  and 
a  bread  pudding,  at  one  o'clock." 

"  Mr.  Rushmere  is  very  kind,  I  am  sure,"  said 

Lucy. 

"  And    remarkably   considerate    too,"    added 


108  WHITE    THORNE    FARM. 

Charles,  with  a  smile.  "  Tell  him  we  are  greatly 
obliged  to  him,  and  shall  be  very  comfortable 
without  him." 

"  Lauk,  Master  Charles,  he  knows  that  well 
enough ;  and  that  is  the  reason  he  goes  out  to- 
day," rejoined  Mistress  Sukey. 

My  readers  may  imagine  how  swiftly  and 
happily  the  hours  fled  away  till  six  o'clock 
arrived,  when  Mistress  Sukey  again  made  her 
appearance  to  announce  that  the  shay  was  at  the 
door  in  readiness  to  convey  Miss  Lucy  home. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  Charles  was  sufficiently 
recovered  to  be  able  to  ride  over  to  Woodfield  to 
return  Lucy's  visit,  which  his  father  intimated  to 
him  would  be  only  a  civil  thing.  At  the  end 
of  a  month,  Charles  was  reinstated  in  the  occu- 
pation of  White  Thorne  Farm ;  and  a  few  days 
after,  Mr.  Rushmere  called  at  the  wheelwright's 
house,  where  he  found  Lucy  very  busy  kneading 
bread,  while  Eolly  was  heating  the  oven.  The 
old  man  condescended  to  commend  Lucy's  method 
of  making  up  her  loaves,  asked  for  a  mug  of  beer 
in  order  to  ascertain  her  skill  in  brewing,  gave  a 
scrutinizing  glance  at  the  general  neat  appearance 
of  the  kitchen,  and  then  walked  off  to  the  work- 
shop, where  he  abruptly  informed  Isaac  Marlow 
'•*  that  his  business  with  him  was  to  hear  how 
soon  it  would  suit  him  to  spare  his  daughter  to 
DC  his  son's  wife." 


WHITE    THORNE    FARM.  109 

"  If  you  ask  me  when  it  would  suit  me  to 
spare  my  Lucy,  I  should  say  never,"  was  the 
reply  of  the  fond  parent,  "  for  she  is  my  greatest 
comfort  on  earth;  but  as  it  is  her  happiness, 
not  my  own,  I  should  think  of,  I  suppose  1 
must  make  up  my  mind  to  part  with  her  as  soon 
as  one  of  her  sisters  is  old  enough  to  take  her 

place." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Marlow,  my  son  wants  his  wife 
home  before  harvest;  and  if  he  can't  have  her 
now,  I  shall  make  him  take  some  one  else,  (that 
is  ifl  can.)  But  I  had  better  send  him  to  talk  to 
you  about  it,  for  she  seems  to  be  the  sort  of  girl 
to  suit  us." 

That  very  day  Charles  came  and  pleaded  his 
cause  so  movingly  to  the  father  of  his  Lucy, 
that  Isaac  Marlow  consented  to  their  immediate 
union. 

Lucy  was  loth  to  leave  her  father  with  so 
young  a  housekeeper  as  Anne,  who  was  scarcely 
twelve  years  old ;  "  but  then,"  as  she  observed, 
"  both  Anne  and  Jane  were  very  handy,  and  had 
learned  many  useful  things  of  her,  and  Polly  was 
now  seventeen,  and  had  got  into  nice  neat  ways, 
and  she  should  herself  be  living  near  enough  to 
come  and  help  them  on  baking  days,  and  any 
other  times  when  they  required  assistance  or  ad- 


vice." 


So  the  matter  was  settled,  and  on  midsummer 
10 


110  'A'niTE  TlIOR^;E  farm. 

day  Anne  and  Jane  officiated  as  bridesmaids 
to  their  happy  siL'ter,  and  Polly  Jones,  not  the 
least  delighted  of  the  party,  gained  a  new  gown 
and  while  ribbon  from  the  bridegroom. 


HI 


THE  POSTMAN'S  KNOCK 

BY     MISS     POWER. 


"  He  comes  — 
Yei  careless  what  he  brings ;  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn ; 
And,  having  dropped  the  expected  bag,  paaa  on, 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy." 

COWPER, 


The  postman's  knock !  who  is  there  that  can 
aear  that  seemingly  insignificant  sound  without 
at  least  a  sensation  of  curiosity,  a  vague  feeling 
of  expectation,  if  not  a  thrill  of  hope  or  fear  ? 
Disappointment  generally  succeeds;  either  the 
letter  is  for  some  one  else  in  the  house,  or  it  is  a 
commonplace  note  from  a  commonplace  acquaint- 
ance, or  perhaps  it  is  a  bill ;  and  we  fling  it  aside, 
feeling  a  little  impatient  with  ourselves  for  imag- 
ining it  could  be  anything  interesting.  This  is 
the  general  effect  of  the  postman's  visit ;  but  per- 
haps the  letter  arrives,  and  there  is  something  in 
the  seal  or  in  the  handwriting  of  the  address,  or 
there  may  be  certain  mystical  ciphers  in  the 
the  shape  of  initials  at  the  corner,  that  make  us 
tear  open  the  missive  with  an  eager  hand  and  a 


112  THE    postman's    KNOCK. 

beating  heart ;  and  first  devour,  then  quietly  reaa 
the  contents,  which  call  forth  smiles  of  delight,  or 
tears,  either  of  grief  or  rapture.  Little  recks  the 
postman,  as  he  trudges  on  through  rain  and  sun- 
shine, v/hat  a  load  of  joy  and  woe,  and  love,  and 
hatred,  and  indifference,  and  deceit,  he  bears  about 
him  every  day ;  at  one  door  he  drops  the  intelli- 
gence of  another  human  being  having  entered  this 
world  of  woe,  as  it  is  the  approved  custom  to  call  it; 
at  the  next,  he  leaves  the  information  of  one  having 
quitted  it ;  but  to  him  it  is  all  the  same ;  he  pur- 
sues "  his  beat,"  alike  unconscious  and  regardless 
of  the  burst  of  delight  or  the  wild  outbreak  of  un- 
controllable grief,  that  immediately  succeeds  his 
departure;  and  thus  he  goes  on,  day  after  day, 
the  unwitting  messenger  of  happiness  or  misery 
to  thousands. 

At  the  window  of  a  large  and  handsome  house 
in^ Square,  sat  a  young  girl  apparently  em- 
ployed in  needle  work :  we  say  apparently,  be- 
cause, had  you  watched  her  for  even  a  few  min- 
utes, you  might  have  seen  that  the  little  white 
hand  ever  and  anon  paused  in  the  middle  of  a 
stitch,  and  the  large  soft  eyes  turned  from  the 
embroidery  frame  to  the  square  below,  as  though 
her  thoughts  were  far  otherwise  occupied  than  in 
the  shading  of  a  rose  or  the  streaking  of  a  tulip. 

This  girl  seemed  to  be  about  eighteen  ;  she  was 
no*,  what  could  be  strictly  called  beautiful ;  had 


THE    postman's    KNOCK.  llt^ 

you  examined  each  feature  separately,  you  would 
have  discovered  that  the  nose  was  almost  verging 
upon  the  retrousse,  and  the  mouth  not  so  small 
as  the  strict  line  of  heauty  prescribed ;  yet,  who 
ever  thought  that  such  was  the   case,  as  they 
watched  the  rosy  lips  breaking  into  a  smile  of 
unutterable  sweetness,  and  displaying  a  row  of 
teeth  white   and   dazzling  as  new-fallen  snow; 
her  eyes  were  magnificent,  large  and  soft,  of  the 
deepest  violet,  fringed  with   lashes   below  and 
above,  black  as  night,  and  so  long,  that  as  she 
looked  up  or  donm  they  alternately  touched  the 
dark  and  exquisitely  penciled  brow,  or  swept  the 
fair  cheek  below ;  her  complexion  was  delicate  to 
a  degree,  the  loveliest  pale  pink  and  white,  with 
the  blue  veins  wandering  beneath   in  bea  niful 
distinctness,  and  her  dark  hair  increasing   ^he 
purity  of  the   coloring ;    she  was  rather  petite, 
with  a  slight,  flexible,  gracefully  rounded  figure ; 
and  hands  and  feet  of  fairy  dimensions  and  fault- 
less proportions.      Altogether,  Mary  Lawrence 
was  a  most  winning  creature,  and  if  any  one 
were  stoic  enough  to  resist  the  witchery  of  her 
face,  her  low  silvery  voice,  her  sweet,  child-hke 
laugh,  and  her  half  arch,  half  innocent  manner, 
brought  the  rebel  to  her  feet  at  once.     She  was 
alone  in  the  spacious  and  handsomely  furnished 
drawing  room,  for  her  mother  had  gone  out  to 
drive  and  her  brother  to  ride  ;  and  though  she 


.14  THE    postman's    KNOCK. 

liked  both  driving  and  riding  in  general,  strange 
to  say,  she  seemed  to  have  taken  a  distaste  to 
both  on  this  particular  day,  and  preferred  sitting 
at  home  and  occupying  herself  with  what  old 
maids  and  boarding-school  misses  call  "  a  piece 
of  work,"  namely,  a  square  of  canvas,  on  which 
it  is  the  employment  of  the  said  old  maids  and 
boarding-school  misses  to  embroider  very  large 
red  roses,  white  lilies,  striped  with  grey,  [shaded 
I  should  say,)  and  various  other  flowers,  that  no 
botanist,  from  Linnssus  to  those  of  the.  present 
day,  ever  described ;  which  clearly  proves  that 
thti  fair  embroiderers  have  advanced  much  far- 
ther in  their  discoveries  than  the  said  botanists. 
Mary  Lawrence  did  not  belong  to  either  of  those 
clas  es  of  society  we  have  mentioned,  and  she 
or.y  applied  herself  to  this  task,  so  peculiarly 
appropriated  to  them,  because  her  mind  was  very 
fully  occupied  just  at  that  time,  and  she  wished 
not  to  let  her  fingers  remain  in  total  idleness. 

And  yet  the  "piece  of  work"  advanced  very 
slowly  indeed,  and  there  were  many  strange  mis- 
takes in  the  coloring  of  it ;  here  the  petal  of  one 
of  the  red  roses  infringed  terribly  upon  a  grey 
and  white  lily,  while  the  lily,  being  in  conse- 
quence pressed  for  room,  extended  one  of  its 
blossoms  over  half  the  space  alloted  to  a  tulip; 
and  yet  Mary  worked  on,  happily  unconscious 


THE    postman's    KNOCK.  115 

of  the  very  disorderly  state  of  her  lambswool 

bouquet. 

The  postman's  knock!     Mary  started  to  hei 
feet,  the   eloquent  blood,  rushed   to  her  snowy 
temples,  and  then   receded  as  fast — her  heart 
beat  audibly,  but  she  stood  silent  and  motionles? 
as  a  statue— her  lips  apart— her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  door,  and   every  sense   seemingly  resolved 
into  that  of  hearing;    a  step  sounded   on   the 
stairs,  and  in  an  instant,  with  a  woman's  presence 
of  mind,  she  was  again  seated,  bending  over  her 
embroidery,  as  if  her  whole  soul  was  occupied  in 
the  shading  of  one  of  those  anonymous  flowers 
though  her  glowing  cheek  and  trembling  hand 
belied  her  seeming  composure.    The  door  opened ; 
it  was  only  a  footman,  but  he  brought  a  letter, 
which  he  presented  to  her ;    she  waited  till  he 
had  closed  the  door,  then  pressing  it  passionately 
to  her  lips,  she  tore  it  open,  rushed  up  to  her  own 
room,  locked  herself  in,  and  throwing  herself  on 
^fauteuil,  began  to  peruse  the  precious  epistle. 
It  was  a  beautiful  study  to  watch  that  young, 
innocent,  impassioned  creature,  as  she  read  the 
words  of  glowing  tenderness   inscribed   by  the 
hand— prompted  by  the  heart,  w^here  eveiy  ac- 
tion  and   every  thought   had   reference  to  ner 
alone;  as  she  traced  each  sentence,  so  instinct 
with  fond,  earnest,  unchanging  love,  her  emotion 
became  too  powerful  to  be  suppressed,  and  burst- 


116  THE    FOSTMAN's    KNOCK. 

ing"  into  a  passion  of  tears,  she  wept  with  excess 
of  happiness  ;  then  wiping  away  her  tears,  she 
read  the  letter  over  and  over  again,  dwelt  on  each 
line,  each  word,  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  her  heart, 
and  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her  face  upturned 
and  radiant  with  an  expression  of  happiness  too 
deep  for  words,  she  indulged  in  a  long  reverie  of 
blissful  thoughts  and  anticipations. 

Lord ,  her  lover,  to  whom  she  had  been 

for  the  last  two  years  engaged,  was  about  to 
return  from  the  continent,  where  he  had  occu- 
pied an  important  diplomatic  post  for  the  last 
eighteen  months.  Earnestly  had  he  entreated, 
before  his  departure,  that  Mary  should  become 
his  wife  and  accompany  him  abroad,  but  her 
mother  (her  only  surviving  parent)  was  inflexi- 
ble ;  she  was  too  young  to  be  taken  into  a  foreign 
land,  from  under  that  mother's  eye,  far  from  all 
the   friends  and  the   scenes   of  her  youth,  and 

Lord  was   forced,  most   unwillingly,  to 

take  his  departure,  havmg  agreed  with  his  future 
bride  that  a  constant  correspondence  should  be 
kept  up  until  he  returned  to  claim  her  as  his 
own. 

And  now  that  time  had  arrived,  he  was  about 
to  embark  for  England,  and  ten  days,  or  a  fort- 
night at  farthest,  would  bring  him  to  her  once 
more  ;  she  would  see  him  —  she  would  hear  the 
voice  whose  lightest  tone  had  the  power  to  thrill 


THE    postman's    KNOCK.  117 

her  with  exquisite  delight !  and  abandoning  her* 
self  to  the  most  delicious  dreams  and  anticipations 
that  it  is  given  to  mortals  to  enjoy,  she  sat,  the 
beloved  letter,  the  messenger  of  such  happiness, 
pressed  to  her  bosom,  until  the  sound  of  carriage 
wheels  and  the  thundering  knock  at  the  door,  aii- 
nounced  the  return  of  her  mother. 

The  postman  passed  on  from  the  handsome 

mansion  in  Square,  and  saluted  with  the 

self-same  knock  the  door  of  a  small,  dark,  com- 
fortless looking  house  in  a  narrow,  gloomy  street 
leading  from  that  he  had  just  quitted  ;  he  waited 
for  a  few  moments  and  th§n  repeated  the  knock, 
and  the  door  was  gently  opened  by  a  woman  of 
about  five-and-twenty,  but  whose  pale,  drawii, 
careworn  face,  gave  her  an  appearance  of  being 
considerably  older  than. she  really  was.  As  she 
took  the  letter  from  the  hand  of  the  postman, 
hope,  fear,  and  expectation  crossed  her  counte- 
nance in  rapid  succession,  and  having  softly 
closed  the  door,  she  proceeded  with  a  rapid  but 
noiseless  step  up  the  narrow  and  gloomy  stair- 
case, and  entering  a  small,  cheerless  but  perfectly 
neat  room,  silently  seated  herself  by  the  side  of 
the  little  crib  in  which  lay  a  sleeping  child,  whose 
thin,  pale  face,  and  attenuated  hands,  proclaimed 
that  sickness  had  heavily  stricken  its  young  life, 
nay,  brought  it  to  the  very  verge  of  the  grava 


118  THE    postman's  KNOCK. 

With  a  beating  heart,  and  a  hand  trembling  with 
emotion,  the  mother  tore  open  tlie  letter. 

The  handwriting  of  the  direction  was  familiar 
to  her,  but  it  was  not  that  she  expected,  and  with 
a  thousand  conflicting  emotions,  in  which  fear, 
however,  was  predominant,  she  began  the  peru- 
sal of  the  epistle. 

The  contents  w^ere  beyond  what  she  had  even 
ventured  io  fear;  for  there  are  some  calamities  so 
frightful  that  we  dare  not  think  of  them  suffi 
ciently  to  dread  them  : — she  was  a  widow!  the 
appalling  stroke  came  upon  her  with  such  a  fear- 
ful weight  of  agony  that  she  was  stupified — par- 
alyzed by  it:  —  then  came  the  full  consciousness 
of  the  whole,  and  dropping  the  fatal  letter  she  fell 
back  in  her  chair,  with  a  stifled  groan,  in  a  state 
of  insensibility. 

She  was  desolate  in  the  wide  world,  her  boy 
an  orplian ;  who  would  watch  over  him  and 
sruard  him  when  she  was  ofone  ?  Parents  she  had 
none,  nor  friends  to  whom  she  could  confide 
him.  She  was  well  born,  but  by  an  imprudent 
marriage  she  had,  they  deemed,  lost  all  claim 
upon  them  —  it  is  so  easy,  when  any  of  our 
relations  commit  an  indiscretion  that  brings  pov- 
erty upon  them,  and  when  they  cannot  possibly 
be  of  any  further  use  to  us,  to  magnify  this  indis- 
cretion into  a  crime  against  ourselves,  of  so  deep 
a  dye  that  no  penitence  can  ever  wash  it  out,  and 


THE    postman's    KNOCK.  119 

we  feel  the  necessity  of  banishing  th(;  offender 
from  our  hearts  and  hearths  forever ! 

The  postman  passed  on  and  knocked  at  another 
door  in  the  same  street ;  a  slow  and  heavy  step 
approached  it  from  the  inside,  and  the  locks  being 
carefully  unfastened,  it  opened,  and  displayed  an 
old  man — so  old,  that  as  you  looked  at  his  bent 
frame,  his  palsied  head,  and  trembling  hands, 
you  wondered  that  he  had  the  strength  to  draw 
back  the  ponderous  bohs  that  secured  the  massive 
door.     Without  speaking,  he  held  out  the  lean 
and  withered  hand,  into  which  the  postman  put 
the  letter,  with  the  laconic  demand,  "  Twopence 
to  pay ;"  the  old  man  looked  at  him  for  a  moment 
as  if  not  entirely  comprehending  the  meaning  of 
his  words;   then  glancing  at  the  figure  "2"  on 
the  letter,  he  muttered,  "  Twopence  !  and  where 
am  I  to  find  twopences  to  pay  for  all  the  scribbled 
papers  I  get  ?   a  gross  imposition  on  a  poor  old 
man  that  has  not  a  shilling  to  keep  him  from 
starvation  ! "    Then  with  a  groan  he  dived  to  the 
bottom  of  the  deep  pockets  of  his  tattered  and 
threadbare  dressing-gown,  and  at  length  drawing 
slowly  forth  a  stained  and  faded  purse,  he  took 
from  it  a  penny,  then  a  halfpenny,  and  looking 
at  them  wistfully,  he  offered  them  to  the  post- 
man, and  with  a  ghastly  grin,  intended  as  an  in- 
sinuating smile,  he  said,  "  Here,  my  good  man, 


l?0  THE    postman's    knock. 

lake  it ;  you  will  not  ask  more  from  a  poor  old 
man  who  is  hurrying  to  the  grave  from  starva- 
tion and  misery — take  it;"  but  the  postman  was 
inexorable,  and  the  "  poor  old  man,"  once  more 
drawing  out  the  venerable  purse,  took  from  it  the 
other  halfpenny,  and  with  an  air  of  desperation 
he  threw  it  into  the  postman's  hand,  and  shutting 
the  door  after  him  he  once  more  secured  the 
bolts,  and  with  a  feeble  step  ascended  the  creak- 
ing staircase.  He  entered  a  wretched  apartment, 
in  which  the  dust  of  ages  seemed  indeed  to  have 
accumulated;  a  crazy  table,  two  broken  chairs, 
and  a  truckle  bedstead,  formed  the  furniture  of 
the  room ;  but  beside  these  articles  were  one  or 
two  well  secured  boxes ;  the  walls  had  once  been 
papered,  but  now  time  and  damp  had  done  their 
work,  and  the  tattered  fragments  hung  dowm  in 
melancholy  dilapidation ;  while  now  and  then  a 
blast  of  wind,  finding  an  easy  passage  through 
the  ill-fitting,  though  firmly  barred  casements, 
waved  the  torn  strips  slowly  to  and  fro  ;  in  the 
floor  were  many  holes,  at  one  of  which  sat  watch- 
ing, with  eager  eyes,- a  large,  half-starved,  black 
cat,  who,  as  her  master  entered,  looked  at  him  as 
though  to  reproach  him  for  disturbing,  with  the 
rounds  of  his  footsteps,  her  expected  prey. 

The  old  man  slowly  seated  himself  on  one  of 
the  ricketty  chairs,  deliberately  wiped  his  spec- 
tacles^ put  them   on,  and  taking  up  the  letter. 


THE    postman's    KNOCK.  121 

which  he  had  during  this  operation  placed  on  the 
table,  he  carefully  examined  the  superscription, 
the  folding,  and  the  seal,  but  as  the  figure  "  2 " 
met  his  eye,  he  shook  his  head,  sighed  heavily, 
and  then  proceeded  to  open  the  missive. 

It  was  from  his  nephew,  the  only  child  of  his 
only  sister:  —  it  stated  that  he  was  in  poverty 
and  distress,  the  world  had  all  gone  wrong  with 
him,  and  now  he  was  about  to  be  put  under  arrest 
for  a  debt  of  five  pounds:  —  in  terms  the  most 
moving  he  prayed  that  this  once  his  uncle  would 
assist  him  by  sending  the  required  sum. 

The  old  man  threw  down  the  letter  with  a  per- 
plexed air:  —  a  request  for  money — for  that 
money  amassed  through  years  of  toil  and  misery 
and  voluntary  starvation — that  money  which 
was  dearer  to  him  than  all  beside:  — and  five 
pounds  !  he  looked  again  at  the  sum  specified,  to 
be  quite  certain  that  such  was  indeed  the  amount 
of  the  demand ;  then  with  an  indignant  air  he 
threw  the  letter  aside,  and  began  to  resume  a 
calculation  which  the  arrival  of  the  postman  had 
interrupted. 

But  still  there  was  a  something  in  his  nephew's 
epistle  that  in  spite  of  the  covering  of  selfishness 
and  misanthropy  and  indifference  that  had  grad 
ually  grown  over  the  miser's  heart,  touched  irre 
sistiblv  on  one  chord;  his  sister  he  had  loved 
better  than  any  being  on  earth ;  he  had  been  the 
11 


122  THE  postman's  knock. 

youngest  of  three  brothers  ;  they  ^vere  stiong 
and  healthy  and  handsome,  while  he,  weakly  and 
puny,  and  of  a  reserved  and  silent  disposition, 
had  been  despised  and  neglected  by  his  whole 
family,  with  the  exception  of  that  sister ;  she  had 
preferred  him  to  the  other  two  —  she  had  played 
with  him  in  their  childhood  —  she  had  assisted 
him  in  his  tasks  —  had  screened  him  from  many 
a  harsh  word  :  —  she  sympathized  in  his  son'ows, 
and  rejoiced  in  his  few  pleasures ;  and  when  in 
after  years  she  entered  into  society,  and  became 
courted  and  followed  and  admired  from  her  ex- 
treme beauty  and  talents,  she  had  still  often  left 
the  gay  crowd,  who  came  to  pay  their  homage, 
that  she  might  sit  by  his  side  in  his  solitary 
chamber,  and  talk  to  him  of  those  subjects  that 
she  well  knew  had  the  most  interest  for  him. 

The  recollection  of  all  this  came  upon  him, 
though  he  tried  to  forget  it ;  and  then  he  thought 
of  her  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  —  stretched  upon 
the  bed  of  death,  to  which  she  had  been  brought 
by  that  disease  which  nought  on  earth  can  cure 
—  a  broken  heart.  Her  husband  had  fled,  a 
ruined  man,  to  the  Continent,  taking  with  him 
their  son — that  very  boy  who,  now  grown  to 
manhood,  petitioned  him  for  what  would  just 
save  him  from  a  prison  —  that  boy  who,  in  for- 
mer years,  had  climbed  on  his  knees  —  h?d  cr^- 
ressed  him,  and  whom  he  had  If  ved  so  icv.drx];/ 


THE  postman's  knoce.  ]2t5 

'rom  his  likeness  to  her  who  now  slept  in  het 
cold   grave.      As    these   memories,    which   had 
(ong  been  buried  in  the  lapse  of  years  of  neglect, 
and  misery  and  calculation,  and  avarice,   once 
more  awoke  in  the  old  man's  breast,  the  bank 
that  had  so  long  dammed  up  all  the  softer  and 
iindlier  feelings  of  his  nature  at  length  gave 
<vay,  and  the  miser,  who  laughed  at  and  despised 
ihe  griefs  of  others,  now  hid  his  face  in  his  hands, 
And  tears  —  tears  such  as  the  tender  and  soft- 
hearted  shed  —  fell   slowly   down   his  blanched 
-tnd  withered  cheek,  and  glistened,  like  the  soft 
Jew  from  heaven,  on  the  letter  that  had  called 
»hem  forth.      Oh,  there  is  a  blessing  in  tears ! 
<hey  wash  out  sin  and  sorrow ;  they  sweep  away 
m  their  coarse  coldness  and  hardness  of  heart ; 
they   are    the    purest,  the    humblest,   and   most 
moving  tribute  we  can  offer  to  an  afflicted  fellow- 
creature,  or  a  justly  offended  Creator!     For  a 
while  the  old  man  wept  in  silence ;  then  rising 
from  his  seat  he  proceeded  to  one  of  the  chests 
which  stood  in  the  room  :  slowly  unlocking  it,  he 
took  from  it  the  sum  of  twenty  guineas,  counted 
them  over,  looked  at  them  wistfully,  then  sud- 
denly, as  if  fearing  that  his  resolution  would  fail, 
he  hastily  put  them  up,  with  a  few  lines  to  his 
nephew.     Then  stamping  on  the  floor,  the  sum- 
mons was  answered  by  a  little  girl  of  about  four- 
teen, who,  beside  himself,  was  the  only  inmate  of 


124  THE    POSTMAN*S    KNOCK. 

the  wretched  dwelling  and  whose  pale,  pinched, 
and  careworn  countenance  was  but  too  well  in 
harmony  with  the  house,  and  with  its  master:  to 
her  he  confided  the  packet,  with  strict  charges  as 
to  where  it  was  to  be  taken,  and  then,  as  if  de- 
termined to  finish  the  day  with  a  second  act  of 
generous  heroism,  he  drew  from  the  afore-men- 
tioned purse  a  sixpence,  which  he  placed  in  the 
poor  child's  bony  hand.  A  smile  of  astonish- 
ment and  pleasure  —  most  unusual  visitants  — 
played  on  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  glistened  with 
grateful  surprise  :  uttering  a  few  indistinct  words 
of  thanks,  accompanied  by  a  courtesy,  she  hastily 
left  the  room  to  proceed  on  her  errand. 

Emerging  from  the  dark  and  narrow  street 
that  had  been  the  scene  of  his  last  two  visits,  the 
postman  entered  the  cheerful  and  more  healthy 
locale  of  Berkeley-square.  Here  the  door  at 
which  he  knocked  was  opened  by  a  footman  in 
neat  livery,  who,  taking  from  him  the  letter  of 
which  he  had  been  the  bearer,  carried  it  up  to  a 
pretty,  elegant,  and  cheerful-looking  drawing- 
room  :  but  gently  —  ere  we  permit  him  to  do  so, 
we  must  describe  a  little  scene  that  occurred  pre- 
vious to  his  entrance.  The  said  drawing-room 
was  at  that  moment  occupied  by  a  lady  and 
gentleman  :  the  former  was,  in  the  two  first-men 
tioned  particulars,  quite  of  a  piece  with  the  salon 


THE  postman's  knock-.  125 

Dut  in  the  last,  the  room  had  rather  the  advan- 
tage ;   for  the  lady,  with  all  her  prettiness  and 
lady-like   air,  did   not   appear,  judging  by   hei 
countenance,  remarkable  for  her  amiability.     She 
sat  on  a  sofa  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  but  she 
seldom  turned  over  the  leaf;  and  every  now  and 
then,  she  directed  her  eyes  towards  the  gentle- 
man, who  was  quietly  occupied  in  looking  over 
some  accounts  or  calculations,  and  far  too  intently 
employed  to  observe  these  glances.     At  length, 
perceiving  that  she  remained  unnoticed,  the  lady 
began  to  testify  some  slight  symptoms  of  impa- 
tience:    she  fidgeted  in  her  seat,  beat  a  tattoo 
with  the  prettiest  little  foot  imaginable,  bit  her 
hps,  and  breathed,  every  now  and  then,  a  short, 
quick  sigh  ;  but  finding  all  these  signs  of  dissat- 
isfaction equally  disresrarded,  she  at  length  broke 
silence.     Those  who  could  have  watched  her  for 
the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  might  probably  have 
expected  a  somewhat  violent  outbreak  when  at 
last  she  condescended  to  speak,  but  it  was  not  so ; 
in  a  cold,  calm  voice,  she  addressed  her  husband, 
—  for  such  the  gentleman  was  —  "I  hope   you 
are  amused." 

There  s-emed  to  be  a  hidden  power  in  these 

few  words,  for  he  immediately  looked  up  in  the 

very  midst  of  a  most  abstruse  calculation,  and  un- 

Dending  his  brows  from  their  puzzled  frown,  he 

11^ 


126  THE  postiman's  knock. 

replied,  with  a  well  got  up  smile,  "  No,  love  ;  but 
1  am  very  busy." 

"  So  I  perceive,"  was  the  reply,  in  the  same 
tone. 

"  But,"  continued  the  husband,  deprecatingly, 
"  I  can  finish  this  lo-morrow,  if  you  want  me  ; 
can  I  do  anything  for  you? — do  you  wish  for 
anything  ?  " 

"  Nothing ! " 

There  was  a  pause;  the  gentleman  was  em- 
ployed in  putting  up  his  papers,  while  the  lady 
appeared  to  be  reading  with  much  interest.  The 
desk  with  its  contents  v/as  at  length  locked  ;  and 
Mr.  Maitland,  our  hero,  walked  to  the  window, 
looked  out,  glanced  at  his  watch,  but  still  per- 
ceiving that  his  pretty  wife  continued  to  read 
with  the  most  persevering  assiduity,  he  ventured 
to  interrupt  her  studies. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-day,  dear 
Fanny  ? " 

"  Nothing ! "  without  raising  her  eyes.  An- 
other pause. 

"  The  day  is  beautiful,  will  you  drive  in  the 
phaeton  ? " 

"  You  have  not  ordered  it." 

"  Because,  dearest,  I  did  not  know  you  would 
like  it ;  I  will  order  it  instantly  ! " 

"  No,  thank  you ;  by  the  time  it  is  ready,  the 
fine  part  of  the  day  will  be  over." 


THE    postman's    KNOCK.  127 

"  But  1  issure  you,  my  love,  it  can  be  at  the 
door  in  a  few  minutes ;  I  will  have  it  got  ready 
at  once ! " 

"  No,  thank  you ;  I  had  rather  not." 

*'  Will  you  ride,  then  ?  the  horses  can  be  at  the 
door  in  five  minutes." 

"  I  don't  choose  to  ride  to-day.  I  wanted  to 
go  out  shopping,  and  I  can't  do  that  on  horse- 
back." 

"  But  it  is  not  four  o'clock  yet,  dearest  Fanny 
and  if  I  order  the  carriage  now,  it  will  be  ready 
by  a  quarter  past,  at  latest ;  you  will  surely  have 
plenty  of  time  for  all  your  shopping  before  the 
hour  ^''ou  come  home  to  dress." 
-  "  Thank  you,  allow  me  to  judge  for  myself  in 
this  case ;  pray,  don't  give  yourself  any  trouble 
on  my  account;  I  can  stay  at  home  very  well." 

And  here  the  fair  Fanny  settled  herself  on  her 
sofa,  and  besfan  to  read  with  redoubled  attention 
as  if  resolved  to  put  a  stop  to  all  further  solicita- 
tion. Mr.  Maitland  remained  for  some  time 
leaning  against  the  chimney-piece,  gazing  ab- 
stractedly at  the  window,  and  playing  with  his 
watch-chain.  At  length,  taking  courage,  he 
walked  over  to  his  wife's  sofa,  placed  himself  by 
her  side,  and  attempted  to  possess  himself  of  her 
hand — it  was  coldly  withdrawn. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Fanny? — tell  me,  love, 
what  have  I  done?" 


128  THE  postman's  knock. 

"  Nothing ! " 

"  But  I  have,  I  am  sure ;  only  tell  me  what  il 


is." 


"  Oh,  nothing  at  all ;  you  have  done  nothing, 

only "  and  here  she  paused  — "  only,"  she 

proceeded,  with  some  warmth,  "  I  do  think  it  is 
a  little  hard  that  I  am  obliged  to  sit  at  home  all 
this  fine  day,  while  you  are  amusing  yourself 
poring  over  those  abominable  calculations,  and 
taking  about  as  much  notice  of  me  as  you  would 
of  a  stock  or  a  stone,  and  much  less  than  you  do 
of  that  beast  Neptune,  who  I  wish  with  all  my 
heart  was  drowned  or  stolen  ! " 

•'  Why,  Fanny,  I  thought  you  were  very  fond 
of  Neptune ;  and  as  to  staying  at  home,  I  must 
say,  I  think  you  are  a  little  unreasonable  :  you 
never  go  out  till  four  o'clock,  and  often  not  till 
five." 

"  Unreasonable  !  I  am  extremely  obliged  to 
you  !  Then  I  am  to  be  tied  down  to  hours  like 
a  slave !  —  I  am  to  stay  at  home  till  the  precise 
moment  the  clock  strikes  four  or  five  !  —  I  am  not 
to  stir  one  second  before  that  time  !  But  you  — 
you  are  to  pass  the  day  exactly  as  you  please  — 
you  are  to  go  out  when  you  choose,  or  stay  at 
home  when  you  choose  ! — but  I  must  not  remon- 
strate—  I  am  unreasonable  ! " 

And  here  the  lady  burst  into  tears,  and  wept 
and  sobbed  violently,  while  the  unfortunate  hus- 


THE    postman's    KNOCK.  125 

band  tried  every  possible  means  to  soothe  and 
pacify  the  angry  fair  one;  but  finding  every 
attempt  only  added  fuel  to  the  fire  of  her  wrath 
he  at  length  rose,  and,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  was 
leaving  the  room,  when  the  footman  entered,  and 
put  into  his  hand  the  letter  we  have  so  long  kepi 
back.  He  recognized  the  hand-writing,  and 
hastily  tearing  it  open,  he  stood  still  for  some 
moments,  reading  it  with  an  air  of  great  interest; 
then,  without  waiting  to  finish  the  perusal,  he 
slowly  left  the  room,  still  reading  the  epistle  with 
earnest  attention. 

Mr.  Maitland  had  been  twice  married  ;  by  his 
first  wife  he  had  one  daughter,  named  Ellen,  who 
was  but  an  infant  when  her  mother  died  ;  she  had 
then  been  confided  to  the  care  of  a  maiden  aunt, 
with  whom  she  had  lived  ever  since.  For  some 
years  her  father  had  remained  a  widower,  for  he 
tenderly  cherished  the  memory  of  his  first  unfe, 
who  had  been  to  him  all  that  a  wife  could  be  ;  but 
he  was  still  a  young  man ;  he  had  a  good  fortune, 
good  temper,  and  good  looks,  and  when  he  beheld 
the  pretty  and  admired  Fanny  Pemberton,  he 
soon  fell  a  victim  to  he^  charms,  —  wooed  and 
won  her.  Three  years  had  passed  since  his 
marriage;  —  of  his  fair  Fanny's  temper  and  dis- 
position we  have  given  a  slight  sketch. 

He   had   been   extremely   anxious,   when  he 
brought  home  his  bride,  to  have  sent  for  his 


130  THE    postman's    KNOCK. 

daughter,  who  had  then  arrived  at  the  age  of 
thirteen,  and  to  have  finished  her  education  under 
nis  own  and  his  wife's  superintendence ;  but  to 
this  plan  the  lady  offered  a  most  decided  opposi- 
tion, and  he,  though  a  good  deal  disappointed  at 
this  early  resistance  to  his  wishes,  was  too  easy 
tempered,  and  really  too  much  attached  to  his 
pretty  bride,  to  insist  upon  the  point ;  and  con- 
soled himself  with  the  idea  that  it  would  be  time 
enough  in  a  year  or  two  to  bring  his  daughter 
forward. 

The  year  or  two  went  by,  but  the  bride,  now 
settled  down  into  a  most  resolute,  determined  and 
exacting  wife,  was  less  than  ever  disposed  to  ap- 
pear as  the  stepmother  and  chaperon  of  a  girl 
whose  beauty  and  attractions  appeared,  from  the 
accounts  she  received,  likely  to  render  her,  in  a 
short  time,  a  most  formidable  competitor.  Ellen 
was  now  sixteen  :  entirely  unconscious  of  her 
stepmother's  feelings  towards  her,  there  w^s 
nothing  she  so  ardently  desired  as  to  be  permitted 
to  return  to  her  father's  house  ;  to  him  her  wishes 
on  this  point  had  often  been  timidly  expressed ; 
but  at  length  she  had  written  a  letter  containing 
an  earnest  entreaty  to  be  permitted  to  return 
home  :  this  letter's  reception  we  have  described. 

Now,  be  it  known  that  Mrs.  Maitland,  in  addi- 
tion to  her  other  qualifications,  possessed  the 
most  unbounded   curiosity ;    and  greatly  was  it 


THE    postman's    knock.  13 i 

exercised  by  the  air  of  interest  with  which  he? 
husband  perused  the  letter  she  had  seen  him 
receive.  As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  room,  and 
there  was  no  one  to  be  moved  by  her  tears,  si:e 
dried  them  up  as  quickly  as  possible,  for  she 
thought  it  quite  useless  to  waste  them,  beside 
which,  they  made  her  eyes  red ;  so  having  wiped 
them  away,  she  looked  at  the  time-piece,  and 
seeing  that  it  was  not  yet  mu. -b  past  four,  the 
fair  slave,  who  was  thus  closely  imprisoned  by 
the  tyranny  of  her  husband,  rang  the  bell,  and 
ordered  her  carriage.  During  the  drive,  her 
whole  thoughts  were  occupied  upon  the  letter, 
and  so  anxious  was  she  to  become  acquainted 
with  its  contents,  that  when  she  saw  her  husband 
before  dinner  in  the  drawing-room,  she  even 
made  such  a  sacrifice  to  curiosity  as  to  meet  him 
with  an  air  that  said,  "  you  have  but  to  ask  par- 
don to  be  forgiven."  Pardon  accordingly  was 
tacitly  demanded  by  great  humility  and  submis- 
sion of  manner,  and  as  tacitly  accorded  by  a  gra- 
cious and  condescending  air  ;  and  then  the  lady 
inquired,  with  a  tone  of  indifference,  "  Have  you 
heard  any  news  to-day,  Charles  ?  " 

And  Charles  related  all  the  news  of  every  de- 
scription that  had  reached  his  ears  during  the 
course  of  the  day ;  but  not  a  word  of  the  letter  ; 
for  Mr.  Maitlaind,  perfectly  aware  that  its  con- 
tents were  likely  to  be  anything  but  agreeable  ta 


132  THE  postman's  knock. 

his  wife,  was  still  deliberating  on  the  best  method 
of  opening  the  subject.  By  this  time,  the  lady's 
curiosity  was  wound  up  to  the  highest  possible 
pitch ;  the  manner  in  which  her  husband  teemed 
to  evade  the  subject,  convinced  her  that  it  was 
one  of  some  importance,  which  he  was  desirous 
of  concealing  from  her.  "  But,"  thought  she,  "  I 
will  find  it  out,  in  spite  of  all  his  caution." 

Dinner  concluded  with  all  appearance  of  amity; 
for  Mrs.  Maitland  had  laid  her  plan  of  attack,  and 
was  resolved  to  go  quietly  to  work. 

It  is  extraordinary  what  a  passion  exists  with 
many  persons,  of  laying  deep  schemes,  setting 
all  their  cunning  and  ingenuity  to  work,  and 
diverging  into  all  sorts  of  difficult  and  circuitous 
paths,  to  arrive  at  the  knowledge  of  some  fact, 
which  a  simple  question  would  instantly  cause  to 
be  explained  ;  but  then,  as  everything  is  valuable 
to  the  descendants  of  Eve  in  proportion  as  it  is 
difficult  of  attainment,  knowledge  acquired  by  the 
latter  method  is,  of  course,  of  little  worth  com- 
pared to  what  it  would  be  when  obtained  as  the 
fruit  of  a  series  of  cleverly  contrived  and  skil- 
fully executed  plots,  which  have  had  the  delight- 
ful effect  of  proving  to  ourselves  (supposing  any 
doubt  previously  existed)  that  our  diplomatic 
talents  are  of  the  highest  order,  and  that  every 
attempt  to  blindfold  or  deceive  a  person  of  our 
superior  discernment  and  penetration  is  merely 


THE    POSTIMAN's    KNOCK.  133 

bringing  fresh  grists  to  be  ground  by  the  all-pow- 
erful mill  of  our  intellect.     Mrs.  Maitland  was 
exactly  one  of  these  persons  ;  and  happy  of  hav- 
ing an  opportunity  of  exercising  her  talents,  her 
ill-humor  meUed  away,  and  gave  place  to  an  un- 
usual degree  of  bland  amiability.     It  was  a  most 
amusing  predicament  that  the  husband  and  wife 
were  placed  in ;  the  one  employing  all  his  inge- 
nuity to  find   the  best  method  of  revealing  the 
secret,  while  the  other  was  equally  busy  in  en- 
deavoring to  discover  it;   and  thus  they  sat  to- 
gether in  the  drawing-room   after  ditiner,  both 
cogitating  over  their  plans,  and  every  now  and 
then   exchanging  a  few  words   on   the  various 
topics  of  the  day,  in  the  most  indifferent  manner 
possible.     At  length  Mr.  Maitland  began,  in  a 
matter-of-course  way,  and  as  if  the  idea  had  just 

struck  him — 

"  Let  me  see,  by  the  bye,  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row will  be  Ellen's  birthday  ;  she  will  be  sixteen 

really  I  think  it  will  be  quite  time  to  have  her 

home  now;  in  another  year  she  will  be  old 
enough  to  be  presented,  and  she  will  require  a 
little  polishing  to  give  her  manner,  having  lived 
so  much  out  of  the  world  :  with  you,  dear  Fanny, 
she  would  very  soon  acquire  it.  I  think  I  must 
send  for  her ;  what  do  you  say  to  it,  dearest  ?  " 

In  an  instant  the  lady's  smiles  va.n!shed,  and  a 
12 


^34  THE  postman's  knock. 

cloud,  black  and  lowering,  came  over  her  pretty 
brow. 

"  Oil,  certainly  ;  since  you  insist  upon  it,  1 
have  nothing  to  say.  I  should  be  very  sorry  to 
thwart  your  inclinations,  even  were  it  m  my 
power  to  do  so  ;  and  since  my  society  has  become 
so  irksome  to  you  that  3'ou  are  compelled  to  call 
in  the  aid  of  a  third  person  to  relieve  you  from 
its  tediousness,  I  have  only  to  regret  that  you 
have  so  long  continued  to  endure  it.  I  little 
thought,  when  I  married,  that  it  wauld  be  so,  I 
confess ;  blit  of  course,  it  was  all  my  folly.  I 
thought  that  you  would  always  be  as  affectionate 
—  as  attentive  —  as  anxious  to  give  me  pleasure 
as  at  first ;  but  I  ought  to  have  known  better,  and 
then  I  should  not  have  been  disappointed.  Pray 
send  for  your  daughter  at  once,  since  I  can  no 
longer  render  your  home  agreeable  ! " 

"Dearest  Fanny!"  exclaims  the  unfortunate 
husband,  "you  mistake  me  entirely;  surely  you 
cannot  for  an  instant  suppose  that  I  could  have 
such  a  reason  for  wishing  to  bring  Ellen  home  ; 
you  must  surely  be  aware  that,  at  the  age  she 
has  now  attained,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  thai 
she  should  be  brought  forward  in  some  degree  ; 
with  her  prospects  she  is  too  old  to  remain  en- 
tirely secluded,  and  allhouojh  her  education  has 
been  well  attended  to,  she  will  require  a  little 
training  to  get  rid  of  her  rusticity." 


THE    POCTMAN's    KNOCK.  135 

Now,  thi;.  was  a  very  bold  speech,  much  bolder 
than  any  Mr.  Maitland  had  ever  been  in  the  habit 
of  making  in  opposition  to  any  of  his  wife's 
wishes,  but  in  this  case  he  was  deeply  interested, 
and  being  prepared  for  a  scene,  he  had  screw^ed  up 
his  courage  to  the  sticking  place,  and  was  resolved 
to  stand  his  ground  manfully ;  in  proportion  to 
his  boldness  was  the  wrath  of  his  lady ;  she  felt 
that  upon  this  struggle  depended  her  empire  — 
'•'to  be,  or  not  to  be," — victor  or  vanquished: 
therefore,  calling  all  her  forces  into  the  field,  she 
burst  forth  with  a  torrent  such  as  might  have 
overwhelmed  the  most  powerful  enemy. 

"  She  had  little  suspected  that,  when  he  mar- 
ried her,  it  was  merely  to  obtain  a  governess  and 
chaperon  for  his  daughter." 

Then,  as  a  last  effort  of  power,  she  deJared 
that  he  should  not  bring  Ellen  to  his  house  while 
she  continued  mistress  of  it. 

This  was  too  much ;  she  had  drawn  the  rein 
too  tight ;  it  snapt,  and  the  tame  husband  she  had 
so  long  led  with  absolute  and  unquestioned  sway, 
suddenly  threw  off  all  his  trammels,  and  in  spite 
of  tears  and  hysterics,  resolutely  declared  that 
ths  following  dny  he  would  himself  set  out  to 
bring  home  his  daughter;  and  he  kept  his  reso- 
lution— he  went,  and  Ellen  returned  with  him 
From  that  day  forth  Mr.  Maitland's  rule  was  un 
disputed  in  his  own  household. 


136  THE  postman's  knock. 

And  it  was  the  Postman  who  was  one  of  the 
principal  instruments  in  all  these  different  cir- 
cumstances ;  but  for  that  worthy  functionary  the 
fair  fiancee  would  have  been  suffering  under 
all  the  pangs  of  "hope  deferred;"  the  widow 
might  have  remained  in  ignorance  of  her  loss, 
for  a  time  at  least ;  the  nephew  would  have 
lain  in  the  debtor's  prison,  while  the  miser 
counted  over  his  thousands,  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands, unknowing  of  his  misery ;  and  lastly,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  Postman,  the  pretty  Mrs.  Mait- 
land  might  have  still  led  her  husband  in  his  gall- 
ing and  ungilt  chain,  while  his  fair  and  gentle 
daughter's  charms  would  have  oeen  left  unseen, 
except  through  the  spectacles  of  her  venerable 
maiden  aunt. 

Reader,  when  next  you  hear  the  Postman 
knock  at  your  door,  may  the  letter  he  brings  you 
be  the  herald  of  good  tidings ;  so  may  yon  learn 
to  welcome  "  the  Postman's  Knock." 


137 


THE  WELCOME  BACK. 

BY     ELIZA     COOE. 

Sweet  is  the  hour  that  brings  us  home 

Where  all  will  spring  to  meet  us ; 
Where  hands  are  striving,  as  we  come, 

To  be  the  first  to  greet  us. 
When  the  world  hath  spent  its  frowns  and  wrath 

And  care  been  sorely  pressing : 
'T  is  sweet  to  turn  from  our  roving  path, 

And  find  a  fireside  blessing. 
Oh,  joyfully  dear  is  the  homeward  track, 
If  we  are  but  sure  of  a  welcome  back. 

What  do  we  reck  on  a  dreary  way. 

Though  lonely  and  benighted, 
If  we  know  there  are  lips  to  chide  our  stay, 

And  eyes  that  will  beam  love-lighted  ?  " 
What  is  the  worth  of  your  diamond  ray 

To  the  glance  that  flashes  pleasure, 
When  the  words  that  welcome  back  betray 

We  form  a  heart's  chief  treasure  ? 
Oh,  joyfully  dear  is  our  homeward  track, 
If  we  are  but  sure  of  a  welcome  back. 


138 


THE  DREAM. 

A    SONNET. 
BT     ALEXANDEE     BALFOUR,     ESQ. 

It  was  no  foolish  dream  of  fairy  land, 

A  paradise  that  ne'er  on  earth  had  been, 
With  bowers  of  bliss  entwined  by  Fancy's  hand  ' 

Ah,  no  !  —  it  was  a  well -remembered  scene: 
It  was  the  broomy  bank,  the  heath-clad  hill. 

On  which  I  climbed,  when  life  and  love  were 
new ; 
The  meadow,  watered  by  the  crystal  rill, 

Where,  whistling  blithe,  I  brushed  the  morning 
dew; 
Again  I  heard  the  whispering  zephyr  sigh. 

Soft  mingling  with  the  music  of  the  grove  ; 
Beheld  the  glories  of  the  twilight  sky, 

While  Laura  listened  to  my  tale  of  love  ! 
Why  did  I  wake,  to  leave  my  native  glen  ? 

O,  gentle   sleep,  return,  and   let  me   dream 
again ! 


139 


FOKGIVE  AND   FORGET. 

BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF     "THE    CROCK    OF    GOLD.' 

When  streams  of  unkindness,  as  bitter  as  gall, 

Bubble  up  from  the  heart  to  the  tongue, 
And  meekness  writhing  in  torment  and  thrall, 

By  the  hands  of  Ingratitude  wrung — 
In  the  heart  of  injustice,  unwept  and  unfair. 

While  the  anguish  is  festering  yet, 
None,  none  but  an  angel  of  God  can  declare 

"  I  now  can  forgive  and  forget." 

But  if  the  bad  spirit  is  chased  from  the  heart. 

And  the  lips  are  in  penitence  steeped, 
With  the  wrong  so  repented  the  wrath  will  dc 
part, 

Though  scorn  on  injustice  were  heaped  ; 
For  the  best  compensation  is  paid  for  all  ill, 

When  the  cheek  wath  contrition  is  wet, 
And  every  one  feels  it  is  possible  still, 

At  once  to  forgive  and  forget. 

To  forget  ?     It  is  hard  for  a  man  with  a  mind, 

However  his  heart  may  forgive, 
To  blot  out  all  perils  and  dangers  behind. 

And  but  for  the  future  to  live. 


*.40  FORGIVE    AND   FORGET. 

Then  how  shall  it  be  ?  for  at  every  turn 

Recollection  the  spirit  will  fret, 
And  the  ashes  of  injury  smoulder  and  bum, 

Though  we  strive  to  forgive  and  forget. 

Oh,  hearken  i  my  tongue  shall  the  riddle  unseal, 

And  mind  shall  be  partner  with  heart, 
While  thee  to  thyself  I  bid  conscience  reveal, 

And  show  thee  how  evil  thou  art ; 
Remember  thy  follies,  thy  sins,  and — thy  crimes, 

How  vast  is  that  infinite  debt ! 
Yet  mercy  hath  seven  by  seventy  times 

Been  swift  to  forgive  and  forget. 

Brood  not  on  insults  or  injuries  old, 

For  thou  art  injurious  too  — 
Count  not  the  sum  till  the  total  is  told, 

For  thou  art  unkind  and  untrue  : 
And  if  all  thy  harms  are  forgotten,  forgiven, 

Now  mercy  with  justice  is  met ; 
Oh,  who  would  not  gladly  take  lessons  of  Heaven, 

Nor  learn  to  forgive  and  forget  ? 

Yes,  yes,  let  a  man  when  his  enemy  weeps. 

Be  quick  to  receive  him  a  friend  ; 
For  thus  on  his  head  in  kindness  he  heaps 

Hot  coals  —  to  refine  and  amend; 
And  hearts  that  are  Christian  more  eagerly  yearn 

0  rer  lips  that,  once  bitter,  to  Penitence  turn, 
And  whisper,  forgive  and  forget. 


141 


RICH   AND  POOR. 

AXONYMOUS. 

It  is  a  common  observation,  and  a  very  true 
jne,  that  "  one  half  of  the  world  knows  not  how 
.he  other  half  is  living."  To  some  very  poor 
people,  it  would  be  a  wonderful  sight,  could  they 
obtain  access  to  the  interior  of  a  princely  mansion, 
and  not  only  behold  the  size  and  the  furniture  of 
the  rooms,  but  the  services  of  the  table,  and  the 
gay  and  elegant  company  who  seat  themselves 
there  with  so  much  familiarity  and  ease,  having 
never  been  accustomed  to  anything  else.  Still 
more  astonished  w^ould  they  be,  could  they  listen 
to  the  conversation,  and  understand  it  all ;  for 
they  -would  discover  that  scarcely  anything  m 
life  was  esteemed  as  they  esteem  it,  or  calculated 
by  the  rule  to  which  they  had  been  accustomed. 

It  might  happen,  for  instance,  that  a  young 
lady,  throwing  herself  listlessly  upon  a  couch 
would  exclaim — "  I  should  like  to  be  poor,  and 
live  in  an  old  thatched  cottage,  it  is  so  delight- 
fully picturesque ! "  or,  "I  wonder  why  poor 
people  can't  be  satisfied  without  shoes.  When  I 
can  do  as  I  like,  I  shall  have  all  my  working- 
people  wear  a  costume,  with  sandals,  or  wooden 


142  RICK   AND   rooR. 

shoes  pointed  and  turned  up  at  the  toe.  And 
then  they  «at  such  shocking  things,  and  keep  pigs. 
and  make  everything  look  so  hoiTible  around 
ineir  cottages  !  3Iij  people  shall  live  in  the  open 
a"T,  and  eat  chestnuts,  like  the  peasants  in  the 
routh  of  France." 

What  would  a  poor  cottager  think  to  hear  this, 
or  a  similar  speech,  from  so  benevolent  a  being, 
especially  if  the  poor  woman  was  one  of  those 
whose  greatest  glory  was  the  possession  of  a  pig, 
and  the  privilege  of  wearing  a  slouched  bonnet, 
and  a  pair  of  leathern  shoes  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  how  exceedingly  ignorant 
are  most  of  the  children  of  affluence  of  what  is 
going  on  within  the  habitations  of  the  poor ! 
Even  if  thev  look  in  occasionally,  it  is  but  for  a 
passing  moment,  during  which  the  poor  people, 
embarrassed  by  the  presence  of  their  distinguished 
visitors,  seldom  talk  or  act  like  themselves,  A 
all  events,  the  actual  means  of  their  humble  exist- 
ence are  not  brought  forward,  nor  is  the  wealthy 
stranger  capable,  from  such  limited  intercourse^ 
of  forming  any  distinct  idea  of  their  actual  mode 
either  of  living  or  thinking.  The  fact  is,  they 
cmdd  not  understand  it.  The  language  of  pov- 
erty is  an  unintelligible  language  to  them^,  because 
they  have  no  feelings  in  common  with  those  who 
he  down  at  night  not  knowing  from  whence  to 
morrow's  food  is  to  come. 


RICH    AND    POOR.  143 

One  thing  is  very  remarkable  in  their  charac- 
ter. It  is  the  extraordinary  generosity  ctf  the  poor 
in  comparison  with  that  of  the  rich — not  of  the 
poor  who  want  bread,  for  it  would  ill  deserve  the 
name  of  generosity,  to  give  one  day,  knowing 
that  they  should  have  to  beg  the  next ;  but  such 
gift:3  as  the  widow's  mite,  cast  into  the  treasury, 
do  indeed  deserve  our  admiration.  Yes ;  the 
poor  widow,  with  a  child  dependent  on  her  labor, 
sometimes  com.es  forward  with  her  little  gift,  and 
oasts  it  in,  perhaps  when  no  one  sees  her;  and 
she  does  tliis  out  of  pure  benevolence,  knowing 
that  her  name  will  not  appear  upon  the  printed 
hsts  of  subscribers,  and  that  her  single  mite  will 
only  be  counted  in  as  a  penny,  or  a  shilling, 
amongst  hundreds  of  pounds.  Nor  is  this  all;  she 
gives  her  mite,  knowing,  and  perhaps  her  little 
boy  knows  too,  that  in  consequence  of  giving  it 
he  will  have  to  wait  a  whole  week  lonofer  for  his 
new  pair  of  shoes,  or  that  his  mother  will  have 
to  give  up  her  ride  in  the  passing  coach  on  a  little 
journey  they  were  about  to  have  taken  together^ 
and  that  they  must  therefore  walk  through  the 
middle  of  the  day  along  the  hot  and  dusty  road. 

Such  items  as  these  have  to  be  taken  into  ac- 
count in  all  the  little  givings  of  the  poor,  and  yet 
they  do  give  in  a  manner  which  swells  the  char- 
itable funds  of  the  country  at  large  to  an  amazing 
extent,  considering  that  nothing  they  do  in  this 


144  RICH   AND   POOR 

way  can  be  done  without  the  giving  up  of  some- 
thing pleasant  or  useful  to  themselves. 

How  different  are  the  feelings  with  which  the 
wealthy  give !  and  how  startled  many  a  kind- 
hearted  young  lady  w^ould  be,  if  told  that  because 
she  had  given  a  few  shillings  to  some  useful 
institution,  she  must  walk  five  miles  along  the 
highway,  or  wait  a  whole  week  for  the  possession 
of  a  piece  of  music  upon  which  her  heart  was 

set! 

Helen  Grafton  was  the  only  child  of  very 
wealthy  parents,  and  so  little  accustonled  to  any- 
thing but  the  enjoyment  of  the  indulgences  which 
money  can  so  easily  procure,  that  she  thought 
very  httle  of  it.  Indeed,  she  had  rather  a  fancy 
for  being  poor,  f.s  she  regarded  poverty;  and 
talked  a  great  deal  about  her  love  of  the  country, 
and  rural  scenery,  and  rusticating,  as  she  w^as 
pleased  to  call  it.  Thus,  when  she  went  to  stay 
with  an  aunt  who  lived  in  rather  a  quiet  sort  of 
rural  way,  she  wTote  long  letters  to  her  friends, 
sometimes  under  a  tree,  and  sometimes  with  her 
shoes  quite  wet  with  the  tong  grass,  and  called 
this  doing  as  the  poor  people  did  in  the  country 
—  living  almost  entirely  in  the  open  air,  as  they 
did,  and  enduring  hardships  like  them. 

If  Helen  Grafton  possessed  many  of  the  faults 
to  which  youth  is  liable,  idleness  was  certainly 
not  amongst  the  number,  unless  a  sort  of  busy 


J 


c  t 


RICH  AiND  rooE.  145 

idleness  might  sometimes  be  laid  to  her  charge ; 
for  out  of  the  various  occupations  to  which  her 
attention  by  turns  was  directed,  very  few  useful 
results  were  ever  brought  to  light.  It  is  true,  her 
property  increased,  her  portfolios  grew  thicker 
and  more  numerous,  and  fresh  means  of  accom- 
modation had  to  be  procured,  year  after  year,  to 
make  place  and  room  for  the  vast  accumulation 
of  papers,  and  patterns ;  of  things  bought,  and 
things  borrowed ;  of  things  lost,  and  things 
found ;  which  were  accustomed  to  slide  down  in 
avalanches  from  the  chairs  and  tables  on  to  the 
floor  of  her  apartment,  whenever  a  pencil  had  to 
be  sought  for,  or  even  when  a  seat  was  required. 
And  Helen  was  so  busy,  too  —  so  fully  and  so 
earnestly  employed,  that  whenever  she  darted  in 
amongst  this  accumulation  of  property — as  she 
often  did — with  fuh  and  flowing  dresses,  some 
corner  of  a  luckless  drawing  was  sure  to  be 
caught,  or  some  portfolio  having  arrived  at  that 
state  of  repletion  when  it  could  bear  no  more,  and 
then  down  went  the  sliding  masses,  like  the 
waves  of  an  advancing  tide,  each  particle  extend- 
ing farther  than  it  was  possible  for  human  calcu- 
lation to  suppose  it  should. 

Helen  was  a  great  sketcher.     She  drew  from 
nature,  but  having  never  taken  the  trouble  to  ac- 
quire a  knowledge  of  perspective,  she  found  her- 
self perpetually  in  the  uncomfortable  predicament 
13 


146  RICH    AND    POOR. 

of  seeing  that  her  drawings  were  wrong,  withou 
being  able  to  make  them  right.  Thus,  there  nat- 
urally resulted  an  immense  number  and  variety 
of  begi?ini7igs,  with  very  few  conclusions,  and 
such  as  there  were,  proved  for  the  most  part  ex- 
tremely unsatisfactory. 

Indeed,  Helen  never  could  tell  exactly  how  it 
was  that  no  part  of  her  buildings  would  stand 
back,  that  the  recesses  sometimes  came  out,  and 
even  stood  before  the  parts  which  should  project 
most.  She  was  angry  with  her  paper  on  some 
occasions  —  with  her  pencils  on  all;  and  the 
money  that  was  spent  in  buying  more  of  different 
kinds,  would  almost  have  satisfied  the  hunger  of 
some  of  the  poor  families  around  her ;  while  the 
vexation  she  endured  tended  very  much  to  ruffle 
a  temper  naturally  mild  and  sweet. 

Perhaps  Helen  was  too  ambitious-  oerhaps 
like  some  two  or  three  other  young  people,  she 
wanted  to  arrive  at  once  at  the  end,  without  the 
means.  At  all  events,  she  had  an  eye  to  see  that 
her  own  drawings  were  not  what  they  ought  to 
be ;  and  thus,  when  any  of  her  friends,  knowing 
the  time  she  spent  in  sketching,  and  observing 
the  thickly-filled  portfolios  which  lay  about  her 
room,  expected  a  rich  treat  in  seeing  the  result 
of  so  much  labor,  a  thousand  excuses  had  to  be 
made,  such  as  —  "Oh!  these  are  not  set" — 
••That   is   merely   a   beginning" — '^  I   had   no 


RICH    AND    POOR.  147 

time  to  finish  this ;  and  many  other  apologies  of 
a  similar  nature,  all  cause  for  which  might  easily 
have  been  obviated  by  a  little  attention  to  per- 
spective, a  little  perseverance,  and  a  little  com- 
gion  sense. 

Helen  certainly  must  have  been  ambitious,  for 
she  liked  to  go  at  once  to  some  difficult  subject ; 
and  having  heard  much  of  the  ruins  of  an  old 
priory  in  the  neighborhood  of  her  aunt's  resi- 
dence, she  lost  no  time  in  setting  out  with  paper, 
pencils,  and  all  necessary  things  to  make  a  sketch 
of  it,  which  was  to  be  framed  in  the  wood  of  an 
old  oak  growing  hard  by,  and  taken  home  to  her 
parents  as  a  proof  of  her  industry  and  skill  in  the 
fine  arts. 

The  scene  of  Helen  Grafton's  eagerly  antici- 
pated success,  was  in  Devonshire  ;  and  it  con- 
sisted of  a  little  village  church  connected  with  the 
ruins  of  a  small  priory,  originally  attached  to 
Hartland  Abbey ;  but  the  most  striking  features 
in  the  scene  were  the  extremely  picturesque 
effect  of  the  ancient  walls  and  windows  of  the 
priory,  richly  hung  with  ivy,  and  in  some  places 
almost  grown  over,  so  as  to  form  masses  of  green 
and  beautiful  foliage. 

Helen  believed  she  could  draw  this  part  of  the 
picture  well,  for  she  had  studied  ^oliagi'  atten- 
tively. Indeed,  it  is  probable  she  could  have 
drawn   any  single   portion,  for  she  was  by  no 


48  RICH    AND   POOR 

means  deficient  in  the  use  of  her  pencil.  T.lie 
unlucky  part  of  the  business  was,  that  she  could 
not  put  the  different  portions  together  for  want  of 
a  knowledge  of  perspective.  She  never  took 
into  account  that  there  is  a  certain  rule  by  which 
objects  become  lessened  in  the  distance,  and  en- 
lars-ed  when  near  the  eye  ;  and  that  when  we 
thus  speak  of  the  size  of  a  thing,  it  is  not  the  size 
it  appears  to  us  of  itself,  but  the  size  it  is  proved 
to  be  when  measured  by  another  object  placed  at 
an  equal  distance  from  us. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Helen,  "  I  will  draw  the 
church  first;"   and   she   drew   it  so  large,  that 
when  she  came  to  the  ruins,  there  was  scarcely 
room  for  them,  unless  they  were  placed  higher 
up  in  the  picture,  so  they  went  back  in  conse- 
quence of  being  too  small,  and  the  church  came 
forward  and  stood  upon  the  foreground.     Helen 
saw  it  was  not  right,  but  concluded,  as  she  had 
often   done  before,  that  shading  and  filling  up 
would  help  it ;  so  she  turned  her  attention  to  the 
cattle,  and  to  an  old  man  who  happened  to  be 
passing  at  the  time.     Recollecting  that  she  had 
often  been  so  far  wrong  in  the  perspective  of  her 
figures,    that   sometimes    they   had    turned    out 
giants,  and  s-  metimes  fairies,  she  exclaimed  to 
herself  "  I  will  be  right  this  time,  however,  with 
my  old  man  ;  for  I  see  he  looks  just  about  as  tall 
as    that  window  in    the   ruin."      She   therefore 


RICH    AND    POOR.  14S 

marked  out  his  size  upon  a  piece  of  waste  paper 
and  let  him  pass  on  while  she  finished  the  cattle. 
This,  it  may  readily  be  supposed,  was  not  fully 
accomplished  before  the  old  man  had  found  time 
to  walk  past  the  priory  and  church,  even  at  his 
slow  pace,  and  to  get  across  the  adjoining  field, 
at  the  extremity  of  which  he  was  still  distinctly 
to  be  seen,  when  the  artist  wanted  him  again. 

"  And  now  for  my  old  man,"  said  Ellen,  with 
a  good  deal  of  satisfaction,  for  she  bad  done  the 
cattle,  as  she  thought,  well ;  and  taking  up  the 
piece  of  waste  paper,  she  compared  the  measure- 
ment of  the  man  with  the  tiny  little  figure  now 
a  great  way  oflf. 

"How  strange!"  exclaimed  Ellen,  as  she 
looked  first  at  one^and  then  at  the  other.  "  I  sup- 
pose this  is  what  people  mean  by  perspective,  for 
I  find  my  old  man  in  the  distance  is  scarcely  so 
long  as  the  head  of  a  cow  which  is  near.  How 
very  strange  ! "  and  she  took  up  a  book  and  held 
it  edgeways  near  her  face,  and  saw  that  to  her 
eye,  in  that  position,  it  was  a  great  deal  longer 
tha»  the  church  was  high. 

"  I  see,  then,"  said  Ellen  to  herself,  "  that  the 
size  of  every  object  depends  upon  its  distance 
from  our  eyes,  and  that  our  only  rule  in  measur- 
ing, is  by  some  other  object  placed  at  exactly  the 
same  distance.  I  do  think  I  will  set  about  learn 
ng  perspective ;  it  would  be  so  useftil  to  know 
13# 


150 


RICH    AND    POOR. 


when  I  have  drawn  one  object,  exactl}''  how  large 
to  make  all  the  rest,  so  that  they  may  appear  to 
be  m  their  proper  places." 

With  this  new  idea,  and  this  laudable  resolution, 
Helen  was  returning  to  the  residence  of  her  aunt; 
when,  having  to  pass  along  a  very  pretty  valley, 
she  vv^as  struck  again  with  the  picturesque  effect 
of  a  number  of  cows  standing  idly  in  the  bed  of 
a  broad  and  shallow  stream,  lashing  the  flies 
from  their  sides  and  cooling  themselves  in  the 
fresh  clear  water. 

Having  failed  in  her  sketch  of  the  priory,  Helen 
determined  to  make  one  more  attempt,  in  order 
that  she  might  have  something  to  show  on  her 
return,  for  she  had  been  a  long  time  out;  and 
besides  detaining  her  aunt's  servant,  who  waited 
patiently  beside  her,  she  knew  that  her  aunt  was 
never  so  dissatisfied  as  when,  at  the  close  of  a 
day,  she  was  unable  to  say  that  she  had  really 
accomplished  any  one  thing.  Seizing  a  happy 
opportunity,  therefore,  she  seated  herself  beneath 
the  shade  of  a  tree,  and  had  begun  the  second 
cow,  after  pleasing  herself  very  well  with  the 
first,  when  the  loud  shouting  of  a  boy  on  the  bank 
of  the  stream  startled  the  cattle  from  their  luxuri- 
ous enjoyment,  and  reminded  them  that  they 
were  expected  to  return  to  their  accustomed  even 
ing  milking  in  the  village. 

It  was  an  interruption  not  to  be  borne  by  one 


RICH    AND   POOR. 


151 


in  Helen's  situation,  for  she  was  one  of  the  rich, 
and  the  cows  helonged  to  the  comparatively  poor, 
on  whose  behalf  this  boy  was  employed  to  bring 
them  home  from  their  pasture  twice  every  day. 
It  was  an  interruption  not  to  be  borne,  either,  by 
one  who  had  never  given  herself  the  trouble  to 
think  whether  cows  were  created  for  any  other 
purpose  than  to  be  sketched.     So  Helen  set  about 
to  reprimand  the  boy  very  severely,  and  having 
settled  him,  as  she  thought,  most  effectually,  she 
turned  again  to  her  delightful  occupation,  which 
she  enjoyed  all  the  more,  from  the  beautiful  situa- 
tion in  which  she  was  seated,  the  repose  of  every- 
thing around  her,  and  the  consciousness  that  she 
herself  was  no  unlovely  picture,  with  her  dog 
sleeping  at  her  feet. 

It  was    not    many   minutes,  however,   before 
Helen  was  interrupted  again  by  the  boy. 

"  If  you  please,  Miss,"  said  he,  ".I  am  behind 
my  time,  and  the  people  will  all  be  waiting  for 

their  milk." 

"Never  mind!"  said  Ellen,  deeply  buried  m 

her  occupation  —  "  Let  them  wait." 

"  But  they  won't  wait,"  remonstrated  the  boy. 

"  They  must  wait,"  said  Helen.    "  It  can  make 
very  little  difference  to  them,  I  should  think.     A 
all  events,  I  mean  to  finish  my  drawing,  so  you 
may  go  about  your  business." 

"  My  business  is  to  fetch  the  cows,  Miss." 


152  RICH   AND    POOR. 

"  How  troublesome  you  are  ! "  exclaimed  Helen. 
"  There,  take  that,"  she  added,  throwing  the  boy 
a  sixpence. 

This  procured  her  a  little  quiet,  but  the  boy, 
calculating  the  consequences  to  himself  of  any 
further  delay,  wisely  concluded  that  it  would  re- 
quire a  much  greater  sum  than  sixpence  to  remu- 
nerate him  for  the  loss  of  his  situation. 

"  I  cannot  wait  any  longer,"  said  he.  "  I  am 
bound  to  get  the  cows  in  at  five  o'clock,  or  I  lose 
my  situation,  and  I  know  there 's  Jack  Milford 
ready  to  catch  it  any  day." 

"  Then  I  'U  make  a  bargain  with  you,"  said 
Helen.  "  If  you  will  leave  me  alone,  and  not 
frighten  the  cows  for  half  an  hour,  I  '11  give  you 
half-a-crown.     See,  there  it  is." 

The  half-crown  looked  large  —  much  larger 
than  the  sixpence.  The  annual  village  fair  was 
about  to  take  place.  The  boy  already  held  his 
sixpence— r half-a-crown  more  would  make  a  rich 
man  of  him.  It  was  too  great  a  temptation.  He 
advanced  to  receive  his  bribe,  with  awkwardness 
and  confusion,  for  he  knew  he  was  doing  wrong; 
and  then  throwing  himself  down  upon  the  bank, 
endeavored  to  go  to  sleep,  and  forget  the  impend- 
ing consequences. 

As  ignorant  as  the  pencil  she  held  in  her  hand 
what  those  consequences  would  be,  Helen  Graf- 
ton went  on  with  her  sketch,  and  many  a  ona 


RICH    AND    POOR.  15S 

besides  Ellen  has  gone  on  in  a  much  worse  man« 
ncr,  gratifying  the  whim  of  the  moment  at  the 
expense  of  others,  simply  because  they  were  rich, 
and  had  never  been  acquainted  with  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  poor. 

But  what,  all  this  while,  was  taking  place  in 
the  village,  and  what  were  the  people  saying  and 
doing  to  whom  the  cows  belonged  ? 

Great  Avas  the  consternation  of  many  of  them 
when,  at  the  close  of  a  busy  day,  they  were  about 
to  prepare  for  their  evening  meal,  and  saw  not 
the  accustomed  welcome  sight  of  the  patient  cows 
wending  their  quiet  way  up  the  shady  lane  which 
led  from  the  green  pasture  to  the  village  green. 
Once  or  twice  a  little  girl  was  sent  out  to  see  if 
they  were  not  coming,  and  then  a  little  boy  was 
sent  after  the  girl,  and  both  staid  out  upon  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  having  no  doubt  whatever  but 
the  cows  would  appear  every  moment.  Then 
came  the  elder  maiden,  on  her  way  from  the 
pump,  setting  down  her  pail  of  water,  and  run- 
ning to  see  what  the  children  were  about ;  and 
then  peered  out  from  the  cottage-door  the  angrj 
matron,  asserting  her  belief  that  as  a  last  calam 
ity  she  should  have  to  go  too,  and  never  doubting 
if  she  did  so,  but  that  cows  and  children  woul(f 
all  come  home  together,  just  as  they  ought. 

Nor  was  this  all.     The  want  of  milk  began  t 
be  fel*  by  many  different  portions  of  the  commu 


154  RICH    AND   POOR. 

nity.  Mrs.  Staines,  the  dressmaker,  had  a  few 
friends  to  tea  that  afternoon.  The  kettle  was 
boiling  on  the  fire ;  the  tea  had  been  made  half 
an  hour,  and  the  milk  had  not  come.  So  she 
sent  out  her  apprentice  with  orders  to  seek  up  the 
milk-boy,  and  scold  him  well,  and  to  tell  his 
mother  she  should  have  no  more  of  her  custom ; 
but  as  it  only  amounted  to  half  a  pint  a  day,  the 
calamity  was  not  of  the  magnitude  which  might 
have  been  supposed  from  the  manner  in  which 
.the  threat  was  given. 

Then  there  was  her  next-door  neighbor,  the 
solitar}'-  schoolmaster,  a  poor  little  sickly  man, 
who  had  waited  for  the  milk  so  long  that  there 
was  no  time  to  make  his  tea  at  all ;  and  he,  hav- 
ing an  engagement  to  wait  upon  a  rich  gentle- 
man, was  obliged  to  go,  faint  and  hungry  as  he 
was,  and  to  receive  a  good  scolding  from  the 
footman  into  the  bargain,  for  being  ten  minutes 
behind  his  time. 

Then  again,  a  little  lower  down  the  street,  was 
a  whole  family  of  children,  cross  and  hungry, 
and  consequently  in  a  state  of  uproar  and  rebel- 
lion, when  their  father's  housekeeper  rushed  in, 
after  having  looked  in  her  turn  down  the  lane  ; 
and  she  having  nothing  else  to  do,  and  being  a 
rigid  disciplinarian,  thought  it  best  the  children 
should  be  all  well  whipped,  and  sent  to  bed  with- 
out their  suppers,  in  order  to  teach  them  bettei 


EICH    AND    POOR.  155 

manners,  in  case  the  milk  should  fail  to  come 

another  time. 

Nor  was  the  calamity  of  the  non-£rrival  of  the 
milk  confined  to   this   class   of  the   community 
alone.     Hard  by  that  village  stood  a  little  parson- 
age, and  the  pastor,  though  a  very  worthy  man, 
was  a  little  apt  to  be  put  out  when  anything 
went  wrong.     Old-fashioned  and  early  were  the 
habits  of  the  parsonage,  and  even  here  the  milk 
was  wanted  for  the  pastor's  tea  long  before^  it 
came.     So,  what  did  the  worthy  pastor  do  ?     He 
went  out  himself  to  meet  the  milk-boy,  and  told 
him  to  tell  his  mother — she  was  a  poor  widow 
—  that  he  should  have  no  more  milk  from  her — 
that  he  knew  those  who  would  serve  him  better ; 
and  that  if  poor  people  would  not  take  pains  to 
accommodate  their  friends  —  their  real  friends— 
they  must  expect  to  want. 

But  the  worst  consequences  fell  upon  the  sick 
and  the  suffering ;  and  amongst  these  was  a  poor 
consumptive  girl,  lying  in  an  attic  chamber,  upon 
which  the  afternoon  sun  shone  fiercely  all  that  sum- 
mer time.  This  girl  had  been  ordered  by  the  parish 
doctor  to  take  milk,  and  as  it  was  the  only  thing 
she  took  with  pleasure,  her  mother  worked  hard 
to  pay  for  it,  and  a  great  luxury  it  seemed  to  them 
both  when  the  pure  fresh  draught  came  in  ;  for 
the  girl  was  very  feverish,  and  though  a  good 
wid  patient  child  at  other  times,  she  was,  as  the 


156  RICH    AND    POOR. 

fond  mother  confessed,  a  little  teasing  about  the 
milk  when  it  did  not  come  in  time.  And  this 
day  she  was  more  restless  and  impatient  than 
usual,  until  at  last  she  grew  so  fretful,  that  her 
mother,  who  was  sorely  tried,  spoke  sharply  to  her, 
and  then  the  big  tears  rolled  fast  from  her  large 
blue  eyes ;  and  the  mother  wept  too,  and  begged 
her  forgiveness,  for  she  knew  that  the  time  was 
fast  coming,  when  her  child  would  be  no  more 
there  to  receive  her  tenderness  or  bear  with  her 
rebuke. 

And  what  was  Helen,  the  child  of  wealthy 
parents,  and  the  unconscious  cause  of  these  and 
many  more  disasters,  doing  all  this  time  ?  She 
was  shading  off  the  shoulder  of  a  cow,  and  adding 
a  little  depth  to  the  shadows  in  the  water,  and 
tipping  some  foliage  by  the  side  of  the  stream, 
and  holding  up  her  drawing  this  way  and  that, 
and  pleasing  herself  with  the  idea  of  the  praises 
she  would  hear  on  her  return.  Thus,  then,  with 
her  head  full  of  the  importance  of  her  own  occu- 
pation, and  her  heart  full  of  self-satisfaction,  she 
rose  up  from  her  pleasant  seat  beneath  the  tree, 
and  giving  the  boy  her  gracious  permission  to 
drive  the  cows  away,  walked  cheerfully  home 
esteeming  herself  quite  as  highly  as  if  she  had 
been  the  benefactress  of  the  whole  parish. 

To  Helen's  great  delight,  she  did  receive  tha* 
day  a  great  deal  of  praise,  not  only  for  the  really 


RICH   AND    POOR. 


157 


pretty  drawing  she  had  brought  home,  but  for 
having  persevered  in  a  second,  after  she  had 
failed  in  the  first.  Of  course  her  aunt  knew 
nothing  of  her  plan  of  detaining  the  cow-boy, 
for  Helen  attached  no  importance  to  it  whatever, 
until  a  few  days  afterwards,  when  speaking  of 
the  impertinence  and  unreasonableness  of  this 
class  of  people,  she  detailed  the  whole  affair  to 
her  aunt,  simply  as  an  instance  of  the  daring  pre- 
sumption of  a  vulgar  little  fellow  who  knew  no 
better  than  to  disturb  the  cattle  she  was  sketch- 
ing. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  elder  lady  took  a 
very  different  view  of  the  subject  from  that  taken 
by  her  niece,  for  she  was  one  whose  pleasure  it 
was  to  go  much  amongst  the  poor,  and  to  make 
herself  really  acquainted  with  their  circumstan- 
ces and  sufferings ;  and  although  in  the  present 
instance  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  know  the 
extent  of  the  inconvenience  which  Helen's  want 
of  consideration  had  occasioned,  she  clearly  un- 
derstood how  this  kind  of  ignorance  on  the  part 
of  the  niece,  might  lead  her  in  after-life  to  do 
many  things  absolutely  cruel  and  unjust  in  her 
transactions  with  the  poor. 

In  order  to  prevent  such  consequences,  Mrs. 

Grafton  became  more  frequently  the  companion 

of  her  niece,  and  even  accompanied  her  in  many 

of  her  rural  rambles,  often  sitting  patiently  beside 

14 


158  RICH    AND   POOR. 

her  while  she  made  her  unsatisfactory  sketches ; 
but  always  endeavoring,  as  far  as  she  could,  to 
lead  her  to  think  more  about  others,  and  less 
about  herself;  but  especially  to  remember  that 
the  poor  are  as  deserving  of  consideration  as  the 
rich,  and  often  need  it  a  great  deal  more. 

"  Now  this  is  exactly  what  I  like ! "  exclaimed 
Helen,  one  day,  stopping  suddenly  on  the  edge 
of  a  wild  common,  just  as  there  started  into  view 
a  little  cottage,  with  a  most  ruinous  gable,  and 
broken  thatch,  over  which  had  been  laid  some 
loose  beams,  and  branches  of  green  wood,  as  if 
to  secure  more  effectually  the  little  shelter  which 
remained.  "  This  is  exactly  what  I  like,"  re- 
peated Helen,  as  her  eye  revelled  amongst  the 
"  choice  bits,"  as  she  had  hoard  other  young 
lady-sketchers  call  the  ragged  edges  and  shady 
hollows  of  the  picturesque  subjects  from  which 
they  drew. 

The  "  choice  bits"  in  this  mstance  were  such 
as  required  the  eye  of  an  artist  to  appreciate,  for 
they  consisted  chiefly  of  holes  in  the  wail  with- 
out windows,  and  a  yawning  gap  in  the  gable 
overhung  by  black  rafters  and  broken  thatch ;  the 
whole  buildino:  lookms:  so  unlike  a  human  habi- 
tation,  that  when  a  little  child,  suddenly  startled 
from  its  play  amongst  the  furze  of  the  common, 
ran  hastily  in,  Mrs.  Grafton  was  inclined  to  think 
it  must  belong  to  some  wandering  tribe  of  gip- 


RICH    AND    POOR. 


159 


sies,  who  had  made  the  hut  their  sheher  for  the 
night. 

The  dwelling,  however,  was  not  altogether  so 
ruinous  as  the  first  aspect,  so  enchanting  to  the 
eye  of  our  artist,  would  hare  led  the  observer  to 
suppose.  Another  view  of  it  gave  a  somewhat 
different  character ;  for  here  one  window  at  least 
had  been  repaired,  the  thatch  renewed,  and  other 
proofs  of  care  were  not  wanting,  to  show  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  what  the  necessities  of  human  life 
require. 

"  How  shocking ! ".  exclaimed  Helen  quite  in- 
dignant at  the  building  up  of  a  new  piece  of  wall, 
"  I  have  no  patience  with  people  who  spoil  every- 
thing in  this  manner.  And  see  here  !  actually  a 
square  window-frame  painted  white  !  I  will  have 
no  windows  in  my  cottages,  when  I  am  mistress 
of  my  own  affairs." 

"  Nor  inhabitants  either,  I  should  think,"  said 
her  aunt,  "  if  such  are  your  plans." 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Helen,  "  I  will  have  such 
cottages  as  Gainsborough  always  painted,  really 
wretched,  and  such  children  too." 

"  Always  orphans,  1  suppose,"  observed  Mrs. 
Grafton. 

"  Always  ragged,  at  all  events ;"  said  Helen. 
"  But  do  let  us  go  round  again  to  that  charming 
gable,  for  I  see  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  here." 
And  saying  this,  Helen  seated  herself  upon  a 


i60  RICH   AND   POOR. 

high  green  bank,  and  opened  out  her  portfolio, 
while  her  aunt  stood  a  little  way  off,  musing,  and 
thinking  very  deeply  about  what  might  possibly 
be  the  circumstances  and  situation  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  that  miserable  dwelling. 

"  Hark  ! "  said  Mrs.  Grafton,  advancing  after  a 
few  minutes  towards  her  niece,  and  stooping 
down  so  as  to  whisper  near  her  ear ;  "  did  you 
not  hear  a  low  moan?"  she  asked;  "  I  am  sure 
there  was  something  like  a  human  voice." 

"  I  heard  nothing  but  the  moan  of  the  wind," 
said  Helen,  "  through  the  old  broken  wall.  I 
delight  in  such  sounds.  They  add  so  much 
effect  to  a  scene  like  this." 

"Again!"  said  Mrs.  Grafton.  "1  cannot  be 
mistaken.  There  must  be  some  one  in  distress." 
And  the  kind-hearted  lady  would  have  made  her 
way  into  the  interior  of  that  comfortless  dwelling, 
had  not  the  figure  of  a  man,  accompanied  by  a 
fine  white  dog,  at  that  moment  approached,  walk- 
ing across  the  common  with  an  air  of  gloomy 
despondency,  as  if  too  much  absorbed  by  his  own 
thoughts  to  observe  that  any  one  was  near.  This 
man  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  door, 
and  stood  still  for  some  time,  evidently  irresolute 
whether  to  enter  or  not ;  or  as  if  wishing  to 
assure  himself  by  some  sound  or  sign  of  what 
was  going  on  within,  before  proceeding  farther. 
At  last  the  door  opened,  then  closed  upon  his 


RICH    AND    POOR  16^ 

receding  figure,  and  for  a  moment  all  was  stilL 
Loud  voices',  however,  were  soon  heard,  and 
angry  threatening  tones:  while  Mrs.  Grafton; 
who  had  approached  nearer  to  the  window,  could 
discover  that  something  had  been  eagerly  ex' 
pected  by  those  within  the  cottage,  which  the 
entrance  of  that  man  had  failed  to  realize ;  and 
the  bitter  reproaches  which  now  and  then  reached 
her  ear,  deterred  her  from  making  any  nearer 
approaches  at  so  unpropitious  a  time. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  unwelcome  guest 
again  left  the  house,  taking  with  him  the  dog, 
which  he  called  to  his  side,  and  ever  and  anon 
stooped  down  to  caress,  with  a  fondness  which 
appeared  somewhat  extraordinary  in  one  of  his 
firm  and  manly  aspect. 

"  I  must  know  what  is  the  matter  with  these 
people,"  said  Mrs.  Grafton ;  but  her  niece,  who 
was  seated  farther  from  the  cottage,  still  deeply 
absorbed  in  her  occupation,  made  no  reply ;  and 
she  entered  alone,  with  her  accustomed  kind  and 
sympathizing  manner,  which  seldom  failed  to  win 
the  confidence  and  respect  of  the  poor. 

The  history  of  the  interior  of  that  cottage  was 
soon  told ,  and,  oh !  how  unlike  it  was  to  any- 
thing which  a  delicate  and  refined  young  lady 
would  wish  to  portray  !  It  was  a  history  of  wan* 
— perhaps  of  wickedness ;  but  that  Mrs.  Grafton 

rlid  not  ask,  for  she  could  see  at  one  glance  tha? 
14# 


162  RICH   AND   POOR. 

the  last  moments  of  life  were  ebbing  fast  away 
from  one,  who,  evidently  in  the  prime  of  life,  lay 
stretched  upon  a  bed  of  suffering,  and,  it  might 
soon  be,  of  death. 

What  a  contrast  did  this  scene  present  to  the 
ideal   pictures   Helen   Grafton   was   perpetually- 
drawing  of  the  beauty  of  poverty,  and  the  poetry 
of  wretchedness  and  ruin  !     It  is  well  enough,  in 
its  way,  to  look  at  the  picturesque  effect  of  every- 
thing;  but  it  is  a  very  inferior  way  to  that  in 
which  a  benevolent   and    thoughtful  mind  will 
regard  even  a  forlorn  cottage  on  a  wild  common ; 
and  more  especially,  a  cottage  in  which  sickness, 
suffering,  or  death,  are  occupying  the  attention 
of  its  inmates.     Not  that  young  ladies  are  called 
upon  to  run  headlong  into  all  \\T:etched-looking 
hovels   to  relieve  the  immediate  wants   of  the 
poor.     Until  they  know  how  to  relieve  them  in 
the  best  manner,  they  are  for  the  most  part  much 
better  occupied  on  the  outside,  even  in  making 
drawings  of  ruined  walls,  and   broken  thatch. 
But  they  need  not  go  so  far  as  wholly  to  overlook 
the  sufferings  which  they  are  unable  to  relieve, 
and  still  less  to  settle  it  in  their  own  minds  that 
poverty  must  be  agreeable,  because  it  makes  in- 
teresting pictures. 

Mrs.  Grafton  had  learned  enough  in  the  inte- 
rior of  that  humble  dwelling  to  know  that  the 
extreme  of  want — nay,  that  absolute  hunger— 


RICH   AND   POOR.  163 

was  wasting  away  the  gaunt  forms  of  its  cheer- 
less occupants.  And  in  addition  to  this,  she  had 
learned  that  the  worst  accompaniment  of  want,  a 
murmuring  and  reproachful  disposition,  had 
turned  the  spirit  of  the  daughter  against  the 
father,  and  sometimes  that  of  the  husband  against 
his  wife.  In  the  present  instance,  however,  the 
father,  that  solitary  and  friendless-looking  man, 
who  had  entered  and  gone  forth  again  with  his 
dog,  was  the  offender  against  whom  the  heaviest 
complaints  were  laid ;  for  he  had  again  and 
again  been  urged  to  dispose  of  his  dog,  and  bring 
home  the  profits  to  share  with  his  famishing  fam- 
ily ;  and  after  repeated  promises  that  he  would 
comply  —  after  even  confessing  that  he  had  had  a 
very  respectable  sum  of  money  offered  for  it — he 
had  returned  with  the  unconscious  animal  still 
cheerfully  trotting  by  his  side  —  the  only  living 
thing  in  the  whole  world,  as  he  often  told  them, 
that  followed  him  for  love. 

In  fact,  he  was  about  as  lonely  in  the  world  as 
a  man  could  be,  his  wife  having  died  young,  and 
his  only  daughter  being  married  to  a  man  of  low 
and  selfish  habits,  who  scrupled  not  to  tell  him 
he  was  an  unwelcome  guest,  except  only  when 
he  brought  an  unusual  amount  of  profit  to  the 
general  stock ;  for  they  all  lived  together  in  their 
miserable  way.  regarded  as  the  very  offscouring 
of  society,  and  but  seldom  employed  in  any  repu- 


164  RICH   AND   POOR. 

table  manner.  The  father  was  certainly  the  best 
of  them,  though  somewhat  idle  and  improvident  * 
but  he  was  a  man  who  had  seen  better  days,  and 
had  known  what  it  was  to  have  a  decent  home, 
a  warm  hearth  to  call  his  own,  and  a  table  to 
which  he  could  even  ask  a  friend.  He  had  a 
certain  softness  of  heart  too,  which  had  made  him 
indulofe  and  snoil  his  only  child,  mistakinsr  that  for 
true  kindness ;  and  he  had  so  neglected  her  edu- 
cation, that  all  the  family  had  gone  down  to- 
gether, and  no  respectable  person  like  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  them. 

A  great  lover  of  dogs  and  horses,  and  well 
skilled  in  his  management  of  both,  this  poor  man 
had  earned  a  precarious  livelihood  by  wandering 
about  the  country,  sometimes  employed  by  the 
farmers,  and  sometimes  not  employed  at  all ;  but 
alv/ays  to  be  seen  in  company  with  his  dog, 
whether  facing  the  wild  snow-storm  on  the  bleak 
hill-side,  lounging  idly  through  the  summer's 
evening  about  the  door  of  the  village  inn,  or 
creeping  in,  when  his  slender  means  were  all  ex- 
hausted, beneath  the  shelter  of  some  cow-shed  or 
hedge-row  in  the  fields,  where  his  untiring 
friend  —  for  even  he  had  one  friend  —  would  nes- 
tle c-osely  by  his  side,  as  faithful  and  as  happy 
as  if  it  shared  the  cushion  of  a  queen. 

Isfnorant  of  all  that  was  ofoinsr  on  within  and 
about  the  cottage,  and  equally  uninterested  in  the 


RICH    AND    POOR. 


165 


situation  of  its  inmates,  Helen  proceeded  care- 
fully ^villl  her  sketch,  for  she  had  been  wise 
enough  to  pay  some  little  attention  to  perspective, 
and  was  thus'  able  to  prevent  her  picture  looking 
absolutely  distorted  and  offensive.   Her  only  cause 
of  dissatisfaction   in   the  present  instance,  was, 
that  all  parts   of  the   cottage  were   not   equally 
ruinous,  that  a  portion  of  the  newly-built  wall 
would  force  itself  into  sight ;  and  in  short  that 
so  barbarous  an  idea  as  that  of  repairing  and 
rebuilding  should  ever  have  got  abroad  in  the 

world. 

While  the  mind  of  Helen  was  vaguely  wander- 
ino-  on  subiects  like  these,  her  aunt  was  very  dif- 
ferently  occupied.     Having  hastened  home  with- 
out a  moment's  delay,  after  discovering  the  sad 
condition  of  the  sick  man,  she  now  returned  with 
a  servant  carrying  a  basket  well  laden  with  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  provisions,  and  things  necessary 
for  sufferers  in  so  pitiable  a  situation ;  and  hav- 
ing seen  some  of  the  provisions  well  bestowed, 
and  having  given  directions  respecting  others,  she 
then  sat  down  to  talk  on  subjects  of  a  different 
nature,  hoping  that  under  the  pressure  of  sickness 
and  affliction,  the  hearts  of  those  miserable  peo- 
ple might  be  softened,  so  as  to  listen  to  the  im- 
portant truths  she  made  her  constant  study  to 
communicate  in  such  a  manner  as  neither  tc 
wear}'  nor  offend. 


166  RICH    AND    POOR. 

Having  spent  as  long  a  time  in  the  cottage  as 
she  thought  prudent  for  a  first  visit,  Mrs.  Grafton 
returned  to  her  niece  with  her  own  mind  so  full 
of  what  had  passed,  that  she  began,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  to  relate  the  history  of  all 
she  had  heard  and  seen. 

"  Hov/  charming  I"  exclaimed  Helen,  inter- 
rupting her  aunt.  "  I  never  dreamt  I  should 
have  been  able  to  make  that  wall  really  stand 
back  so  well  as  it  does." 

"  I  don't  think,"  continued  Mrs.  Grafton,  "  the 
poor  man  will  continue  many  days." 

"  Just  wait  one  moment,  if  you  please,"  said 
Helen. 

"  And  that  hungry  mother  with  her  young 
babe  ! "  said  the  aunt.  "  I  never  saw  a  famish- 
ing infant  before." 

"  How  ridiculous  !  "  exclaimed  Helen,  "  really 
that  I  should  never  have  taken  up  perspective 
.lefor 


» " 


"  I  am  afraid  the  man  is  insensible  to  his  situ- 
ation," observed  the  aunt.  "  He  shows  no  sign 
of  feeling  beyond  the  suffering  of  the  moment." 

"  I  wish  they  would  leave  their  door  open," 
said  the  niece.  "  Don't  you  think,  dear  aunt,  we 
might  ask  them  to  leave  it  just  half  open,  you 
know  ? " 

But  by  this  time  the  patience  of  the  elder  lady 
was  quite  exhausted,  and  in  an  unusually  prompi 


RICH    AND   POOR. 


167 


and  decided  manner,  she  desired  her  niece  to  put 
away  her  pencils,  and  return  immediately  home. 
Their  walk  was  a  silent  one,  for  their  minds  were 
so  differently  occupied,  that  it  would  not  have 
been  easy  to  carry  on  any  connected  conversa- 
tion; and  besides  this  difficulty,  Mrs.  Grafton 
was  thinking  very  earnestly  how  it  would  he  pos- 
sible to 'impress  the  mind  of  her  niece  wdth  any 
right  conviction,  that  there  were  other  things  in 
the  world  of  quite  as  much  importance  as  herself, 
and  her  own  trifling  affairs. 

The  grave  thoughts  of  the  aunt,  however, 
were  suddenly  interrupted  by  an  exclamation  of 
delight  from  her  niece,  on  coming  suddenly  in 
sight  of  a  man  seated  on  the  knotted  roots  of  an 
old  tree,  with  his  arm  resting  over  a  dog  which 
seemed  determined  to  steal  up  and  lick  his  face, 
as  if  in  the  superabundance  of  its  affection  and 

its  joy. 

"What  a  sweet  picture!"  said  Helen,  "and 
that  dear,  lovely  dog !  Do  you  think  the  man 
would  give  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  would  sell  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Graf- 
ton, recognizing  in  the  person  of  the  man,  the 
same  individual  who  had  left  the  cottage. 

"  Do  you  want  to  part  with  your  dog?"  asked 
Helen,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  as  soon  as 
Bhe  had  reached  the  spot. 

«  Not  exactly  that,''  replied  the  man. 


168  RICH   AND   POOR. 

"  You  want  to  sell  it,  I  suppose,"  said  Helen^ 
«  at  the  best  price  you  can  get  ? " 

"  That  I  want  to  sell  him,"  said  the  man,  "  is 
not  quite  the  truth — that  I  must  sell  him,  would 
be  nearer  the  mark,  miss." 

"  Suppose  I  give  you  half-a-crown  ? "  said 
Helen. 

The  man  shook  his  head  ;  and  Mrs.  -Grafton 
looked  on  in  silence,  determined  to  see  what  her 
niece  would  do,  before  she  interfered. 

"  The  dog  is  worth  a  million  of  money  to  me," 
said  the  man.     "  He  once  saved  my  life." 

"  I  would  be  enchanted  with  a  dog  that  would 
save  my  life,"  said  Helen.  "  Suppose  I  give 
you  five  shillings  ?  " 

But  the  man  still  shook  his  head ;  and  Helen 
went  on  to  ask  him  how  he  could  afford  to  keep 
a  dog,  and  to  tell  him  how  much  better  off  he 
would  be  without  it,  provided  he  was  poor,  as 
indeed  he  seemed  to  be. 

"  I  know  all  that,"  said  the  man ;  "  or  at  least, 
if  I  don't  know  it,  it  is  n't  for  want  of  having  it 
told  me.     To  cut  the  matter  short,  I  '11  take  a 
guinea  for  the  dog — not  a  farthing  less.     No 
I  '11  drown  him  first." 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  to  give  the  man  a  gui 
nea,"  said  Helen  to  her  aunt.     "  He  looks  ex- 
tremely poor,  and  he  must  be  a  good  kind  of  man, 
or  he  would  not  be  so  fond  of  his  dog." 


RICH    AND    rOOR.  169 

**  Do  as  you  please,"  said  Mrs.  Grafton. 

"  There,  then,"  said  Helen,  holding  out  the 
gold.     "  Now  the  dog  is  mine  ! " 

"  Not  yet,"  murmured  the  man,  bending  for- 
ward, and  stooping  over  his  dog,  so  as  to  conceal 
the  workinsfs  of  his  face  from  observation.  "  You 
and  I,  old  fellow;"  he  continued,  "  were  never 
parted -before.  How  do  you  think  you  shall  like 
it— eh?" 

"  He  is  shedding  tears,  I  do  declare  ! "  whispered 
Helen  to  her  aunt.  "  Oh !  I  am  so  glad  I  have 
bought  his  dog !  We  ought  to  be  kind  to  such 
people,  ought  we  not,  dear  aunt  ? " 

But  the  kindness  of  the  aunt  was  of  a  very 
different  description  from  that  of  the  niece. 
''  Come,  come  ! "  said  she,  "  we  have  let  this  folly 
go  on  a  little  too  far.  Keep  your  poor  dog,"  said 
she  to  the  man  ;  "  we  have  no  intention  of  depriv- 
ing you  of  the  only  friend  you  seem  to  have  in 
the  world." 

"  I  viust  part  Avith  him,"  said  the  man.  "  I 
have  not  a  farthing,  and  they  will  never  let  me 
take  him  within  the  door  again." 

"  Don't  go  within  their  door  yourseif,"  said  Mrs. 
Grafton.     "  Why  should  you  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  no  other  roof  to  shelter  me," 
replied  the  man. 

"  Do  you  think  you  would  work  if  you  had  a 
15 


*70  RICH   AND   POOfl. 

chance  to  do  better  for  yourself,  and  keep  you* 
dog  ? "  asked  the  lady. 

"  Would  I  not,  ma'am  !  "  said  he.     "  Ah  !  yoi 
don't  know  all !  " 

"  But  I  know  a  great  deal,"  replied  his  benevo 
lent  friend ;  "  and  I  am  determined  to  make  tht 
trial  if  you  will  but  work  and  keep  away  froip 
bad  company,  and  give  up  your  wandering,  idle 
habits.  If  I  find  you  industrious  and  honest,  I 
will  give  you  wages  that  will  enable  you  to  live 
decently,  and  to  keep  your  dog  into  the  bargain." 

The  man  uncovered  his  head,  and  with  clasped 
hands,  poured  forth  such  a  torrent  of  eloquent  but 
genuine  gratitude,  that  Helen  could  not  help 
wishing  she  had  remembered  at  first  how  much 
kinder  it  would  have  been  to  assist  the  poor  man, 
without  at  the  same  time  depriving  him  of  his 
dog. 


171 


ANTICIPATION. 

BY     MRS.     EMBURY. 

We  'll  have  a  cot 
Upon  the  banks  of  some  meandering  stream, 
Whose  ripple,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
Shall  be  our  music ;  roses  there  shall  twine 
Around  the  casement,  with  the  jessamine, 
Whose  siairy  blossoms  shine  out  from  beneath 
Their  veiling  leaves,  like  hope,  and  whose  faint 

breath 
Is  sweet  as  memory's  perfume.     All  the  flowers 
That  nature  in  her  richest  bounty  showers, 
Shall  deck  our  home ;  fresh  violets  that,  like  light 
And  love  and  hope,  dwell  everywhere ;  the  bright 
And  fragrant  honeysuckle  ;  while  our  feet 
Shall  press  the   daisy's  bloom.     Oh!   'twill  be 

sweet 
To  sit  within  the  porch  at  even  tide 
And  drink  the  breath  of  Heaven  at  thy  dear  sid& 


172 


LABOR. 

BT  THfi   AUTHOR    OF   THE   POET's   OFFERlJCa 

Scorn  thou  not  the  hands  of  labor, 
Brawny  arms  have  golden  hearts  ; 

Labor  wins  the  prize  of  beauty, 
Labor  health  and  strength  imparts. 

Labor  is  the  key  that  opens 
Avenues  to  wealth  and  fame ; 

Labor  need  not  blush,  though  lowly, 
For  to  labor  brings  not  shame. 

Labor  builds  the  peasant's  cottage, 
Labor  rears  the  palace  gate ; 

Labor  makes  the  rich  more  noble, 
And  the  noble  ones  more  great. 

Work,  and  thou  shalt  be  a  brother 

To  the  only  royal  line  ;  "^ 
Work,  and  thou  shalt  clothe  another - 

Labor  makes  the  soul  to  shine. 

"Labor  are  est  or  are — 

So  the  ancient  monk  declares — 
Laborare  est  orare^ 

Echoes  from  the  silent  stars. 

*  The  aristocracy  of  labor. 


LABOR.  172 

Industry  is  life  and  worship, 

Idleness  is  guilt  and  sin  ; 
Work,  and  thou  shall  feel  the  presence 

Of  the  present  God,  within. 

Labor  is  the  throne  of  Genius, 

Holiest  of  holy  things ; 
Greatest  profit,  greatest  pleasure, 

Labor  to  the  laborer  brings. 


Ye  whom,  born  to  wealth  and  titles. 

Sloth  and  luxury  enthrall; 
Labor,  and  ye  shall  inherit 

Blessings  that  surpass  them  al!> ' 
15* 


174 


THE   BKIGHTON    COACH. 

BY    THEODORE    HOOK. 

A  friend,  on  whose  veracity  I  can  perfectly  rely,  told  me  iht 
following  story  ;  whether  a  repetition  of  it  may  interest  a 
reader,  I  cannot  say  ;  but  I  will  hazard  the  experiment. 

I  WAS  once  (said  my  friend)  placed  in  a  situa- 
tion of  peculiar  embarrassment ;  the  event  made 
a  strong  impression  on  me  at  the  time  —  an  im- 
pression, indeed,  which  has  lasted  ever  since. 

Those  who  know  as  well  as  I  do,  and  have 
known  as  long  as  I  have  known,  that  once  muddy, 
shabby,  dirty,  fishing-town  on  the  Sussex  coast, 
which  has  grown,  under  the  smiles  and  patronage 
of  our  late  beloved  king,  into  splendor  and  opu 
lence,  called  Brighton,  will  be  aware  that  there 
run  to  it  and  from  it,  divers  and  sundry  most  ad- 
mirable public  conveyances  in  the  shape  of  stage 
coaches  ;  that  the  rapid  improvements  in  that  sort 
of  travelling  have,  during  late  years,  interfered 
with,  and  greatly  injured  the  trade  of  posting: 
and  that  people  of  the  first  respectability  think  it 
no  shame  to  pack  themselves  up  in  a  Brighton 
coach,  and  step  out  of  it  at  Charing-cross  exactly 
five  hours  after  they  have  stepped  into  it,  in 
Castle-square. 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  175 

The  gallant  gay  Stevenson,  with  his  prancing 
greys  under  perfect  command,  used  to  attract  a 
crowd  to  see  him  start;  and  now,  although  he, 
poor  fellow,  is  gone  that  journey  whence  no  trav- 
eller returns,  Goodman  still  survives,  and  the 
'  Times"  still  flourishes  ;  in  that,  is  the  principal 
scene  of  my  embarrassment  laid  ;  and  to  that  ad- 
mirable, neat,  and  expeditious  equipage  must  I 
endeavor  to  attract  your  attention  for  some 
ten  minutes. 

It  was  one  day  in  the  autumn  of  1S29,  just  as 
the  Pavilion  clock  was  striking  three,  that  I  step- 
ped into  Mr.  Goodman's  coach.  In  it,  I  fourtd 
already  a  thin  stripling  enveloped  in  a  fur  pelisse, 
the  only  distinguishing  mark  of  whose  sex  was 
a  tuft  of  mustachio  on  his  upper  lip.  He  wore'  a 
travelling-cap  on  his  head,  girt  with  a  golden  band, 
and  eyed  me  and  his  other  fellow-traveller  as 
though  we  had  been  of  a  different  race  of  beings 
from  himself. 

That  other  fellow-trav^eller  I  took  to  be  a  small 
attorney.  He  was  habited  in  a  drab  great  coat, 
which  matched  his  round,  fat  face  in  color;  his 
hair,  too,  was  drab  and  his  hat  was  drab ;  his 
features  were  those  of  a  young  pig ;  and  his  re- 
creation through  the  day  was  sucking  barley- 
sugar,  to  which  he  perpetually  kept  helping  him- 
self from  a  neat,  white  paper  parcel  of  the  luscious 
commodity,  which  he  had  placed  in  the  pocket  of 
the  coach  window. 


176  THE    BRIGHTON   COACH. 

There  was  one  other  passenger  to  take  up,  and 
I  began  wondering  what  it  would  be  like,  and 
whether  it  would  be  male  or  female,  old  or  young, 
handsome  or  ugly,  when  my  speculations  were 
speedily  terminated  by  the  arrival  of  an  extreme- 
ly delicate  pretty  woman,  attended  by  her  maid. 
The  lady  was  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  plain- 
ness, and  jaelded  the  palm  of  gaiety  to  her  soil- 
brette,  who  mounted  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Goodman, 
at  the  moment  that  her  mistress  placed  herself 
next  my  pig-faced  friend  and  opposit-e  to  me. 

It  does  not  require  half  a  second  of  tim.e  to  see 
and  know  and  understand  what  sort  of  woman  it 
is  who  is  thus  brought  into  juxtaposition  with  one. 
The  turn  of  her  mind  may  be  ascertained  by  the 
way  she  seats  herself  in  her  corner;  her  dis- 
position, by  the  look  she  gives  to  her  companions : 
and  her  character — but  perhaps  that  may  require 
a  minute  or  two  more. 

The  lady  in  question  cast  a  hasty  glance  round 
her,  merely,  as  it  should  seem,  to  ascertain  if  she 
were  personally  acquainted  with  any  of  her  com- 
panions. She  evidently  was  not ;  and  her  eyes 
sank  from  the  inquiring  gaze  round  the  party 
upon  a  black  silk  bag  which  lay  on  her  lap.  She 
was  about  four  or  five  and  tv/enty ;  her  eyes  were 
blue  and  her  hair  fair ;  it  hung  carelessly  over 
her  forehead,  and  the  whole  of  her  costume  gave 
evdence  of  a  want  of  attention  to  what  is  called 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  l?*? 

''  setting  one's  self  off  to  the  best  advantage." 
She  was  tall  —  thin  —  pale  ;  and  there  was  a 
sweet  expression  in  her  countenance  which  I 
shall  never  forQ-et :  it  was  mild  and  c^entle,  and 
seemed  to  be  formed  to  its  plaintive  cast  by  suf- 
fering—  and  yet  why  should  one  so  lovely  be 
unhappy  ? 

As  the  clock  struck,  we  started.  The  sudden 
turn  of  the  team  round  the  corner  of  North-street 
and  Church-street  brought  a  flush  of  color  into 
her  cheeks  ;  she  was  conscious  of  the  glow  which 
I  was  watching  ;  she  seemed  ashamed  of  her  own 
timidity.  She  looked  up  to  see  if  she  was  ob- 
served ;  she  saw  she  was,  and  looked  down 
again. 

All  this  happened  in  the  first  hundred  and 
seventy  yards  of  a  journey  of  fifty-two  miles  and 
a  half. 

My  pig-faced  friend,  who  sucked  his  barley 
sugar  sonorously,  paid  little  attention  to  anybody, 
or  anything,  except  himself;  and,  in  pursuance 
of  that  amiable  tenderness,  pulled  up  the  window 
at  his  side.  The  lady,  like  the  beau  in  the  fur 
coat,  laid  her  delicate  head  back  in  the  corner  of 
the  coach,  and  slept,  or  seemed  to  sleep. 

The  horror  I  felt  lest  my  pig-faced  friend 
should  consider  it  necessary  to  join  in  any  con- 
versation which  I  might  venture  to  originate  with 
my  unknown  beauty  opposite,  kept  me  quiet. 


178  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

nnd  I  "  ever  and  anon"  looked  anxiously  towards 
his  vacant  features,  in  liopes  to  see  the  two  grey 
unmeaning  things  which  served  him  for  eyes, 
closed  in  a  sweet  and  satisfactory  slumber.  But 
no ;  although  he  spoke  not,  and,  if  one  may 
judge  by  countenances,  thought  not,  still  he  kept 
awake,  and  ready,  as  it  should  seem,  to  join  in  a 
conversation  which  he  had  not  courage  to  begin. 

And  so  we  travelled  on,  and  not  one  syllable 
was  exchanged  until  we  reached  Crawley.  There 
my  heart  was  much  relieved.  At  Hands-cross 
we  had  dropped  the  cornet  with  the  tufts ;  horses 
were  ready  to  convey  him  to  some  man's  house 
to  dinner  ;  and,  when  we  were  quitting  Crawley, 
1  saw  Rxy  excellent  demolisher  of  barley-sugar 
mount  a  regular  Sussex  buggy,  and  export  him- 
self to  some  town  or  village  out  of  the  line  of  our 
road. 

I  here  made  a  small  effort  at  ice-breaking  with 
my  delicate  companion,  who  consorted  with  her 
maid  at  one  end  of  the  room,  while  I,  with  one 
or  two  more  sensualists  from  the  outside,  was 
refreshing  myself  with  some  cold  fowl  and  salad. 
I  ventured  to  ask  her  whether  she  would  allow 
me  to  offer  her  some  wine  and  water.  Hang  it, 
thought  I,  if  we  stand  upon  gentility  in  a  stage 
coach  journey,  smart  as  the  things  are,  we  shall 
never  part  sociably.  She  seemed  somewhat  of 
the  same  opinion,  for  she  smiled.     I  shall  nevei 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  179 

forget  it;  it  seemed  on  her  placid  countenance 
like  sunshine  amidst  showers  —  she  accepted  my 
proffered  draught. 

"  I  rather  think,"  said  I,  "we  shall  travel  alone 
for  the  rest  of  the  journey — our  communicative 
friends  have  left  us." 

She  made  no  answer ;  but  from  the  sort  of 
expression  which  passed  over  her  features,  I  was 
very  sorry  I  had  made  the  remark.  I  was  in  the 
greatest  possible  alarm  lest  she  should  require 
the  presence  of  her  maid  to  play  propriety ;  but 
no,  she  had  no  such  notion. 

A  summons  from  Mr.  Goodman  soon  put  the 
party  in  motion,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were 
again  on  our  journey  —  the  dear  interesting  crea- 
ture and  myself  tete  a  tete. 

"  Have  you  been  long  at  Brighton  ? "  said  I. 

"Some  time,"  replied  the  lad}'-  —  "some 
months,  indeed."     Here  came  a  pause. 

"  You  reside  in  London,  I  presume  ?"  said  I. 

"  In  the  neighborhood,"  replied  the  lady ;  at 
the  same  time  drawing  off  the  glove  of  her  left 
hand,  (which,  by  the  way,  was  as  white  as  snow,) 
to  smoothe  one  of  her  eyebrows,  as  it  appeared 
by  what  she  actually  did  with  it,  but,  as  I  thought, 
to  exhibit  to  my  sight,  the  golden  badge  of  union 
which  encircled  its  third  finofer. 

"  And,"  said  I,  "  have  you  been  living  alone  af 
Brighton  so  long  ?  " 


180  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  the  stranger;  "  my  husband 
has  only  left  me  during  the  last  few  weeks,  and 
has  now  summoned  me  home,  being  unable  to 
rejoin  me  on  the  coast." 

"  Happy   man ! "    said  I,   "  to   expect   such   a 

wife." 

Now,  there  did  not  seem  much  in  this  com- 
mon place  bit  of  folly,  for  I  meant  it  for  little  else 
than  jest,  to  summon  up  a  thousand  feelings,  and 
excite  a  thousand  passions  —  to  raise  a  storm,  and 
cause  a  flood  of  tears.  But  so  it  w^as — my  com- 
panion held  down  her  head  to  conceal  her  grief, 
and  the  big  drops  fell  from  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  Good  God ! "  said  I,  "  have  /  said  anything 
10  induce  this  emotion?  —  what  have  I  done? — 
forgive  me — believe  me,  if  I  have  erred,  it  has 
been  unintentionally — I  —  " 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  said  the  sufferer — "  it 
is  not  your  fault — you  are  forgiven — my  heart 
is  full,  very  full  —  and  a  word  that  touches  the 
chord  which  vibrates  to  its  very  centre  sadly 
affects  me — pray  —  pray,  let  go  my  hand  —  and 
believe  me  I  am  not  angry  with  you  —  I  am  to 
blame." 

•'  But,"  said  I — not  implicitly  obeying  the  in- 
junction abou't  letting  go  her  hand, — because 
what  harm  can  holding  a  hand  do  ?  — "  youmusi 
be  more  explicit  before  1  can  be  satisfied  with  for- 
giveness— you  have  occasioned  an  interest  whiclp 


THE    BRIGHTON   COACH. 


ISl 


1  cannot  control;  you  have  excited  feelings  which 
I  ca/inot  subdue  — I  am  sure  you  are  unhappy, 
and  that  I  have  referred  to  something  which— " 
"  Pray,  pray  ask  me  nothing,"  said  my  agi- 
tated companion  ;  "  I  have  betrayed  myself— but 
I  am  sure,  quite  sure,"  added  she  — and  I  do 
think  I  felt  a  sort  of  gentle  pressure  of  my  hand 
at  the  moment  —"  that  you  will  not  take  advan- 
tage   of  a   weakness    of   which   I  ought   to   be 

ashamed." 

"  You  may  rely  upon  me,"  said  I,  "  that,  so 
far  as  you  may  choose  to  trust  me,  you  are  safe  ; 
and  you  may  believe,  that  any  anxiety  I  may 
express  to  kivow  more  of  circumstances  which 
(whatever  they  are)  so  deeply  affect  you,  arises 
from  an  interest  which  you  had  excited  even 
before  yoa  spoke." 

*'  What  would  you  think  of  a  woman,"  said 
she,  "  who  should  open  her  heart  to  a  stranger? 
or,  what  sympathy  could  sorrows  excite,  which 
might  be  told  by  her  after  an  hour's  acquaint- 
ance ?  No,  no  ;  let  me  remain  unknown  to  you 
as  I  am.  Let  us  talk  on  ordinary  topics,  and  le; 
us  part  friends — but  not  to  meet  again." 

Not  much  in  the  habit  of  making  conquests 
and  not  being  of  that  particular  "  shape  and 
make"  to  be  fallen  in  love  with,  at  first  sight,  1 
confess  this  appeal  seemed  extraordinary.  It  was 
clear,  from  w^hatever  cause  arising  I  could  uQl 
16 


182  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

pretend  to  divine,  that  I  had  somehow  prepos- 
sessed my  companion  in  my  favor ;  and  cer- 
tainly, if  anything  in  the  world  could  have 
induced  me  to  resolve  to  meet  this  interesting 
creature  again  and  again,  it  was  her  expressed 
desire  that  such  a  thing  should  not  occur.  1 
wonder  if  she  anticipated  the  effect  of  her  prohi- 
bition when  she  announced  it ! 

"  Friends  !"  said  I,  "  why  should  we  not  part 
friends  ?  Why  should  we  not  live  friends  ?  Let 
me  implore  you,  tell  me  more  of  yourself — that 
IS  all  I  ask." 

"  Good  God ! "  said  she,  raising  her  blue  eyes 
towards  heaven,  "  is  it  possible  that  my  pride 
and  spirit  should  be  so  broken,  so  worked  upon, 
that  I  could  consent  to  admit  of  such  a  conver- 
sation with  a  stranger  ?  How  strangely  do  events 
operate  upon  the  human  mind ! " 

"  Gentle  spirits  should  be  gently  treated,"  said 
I.  "  I  fear  some  rude  hand  has  broken  in  upon 
the  rest  that  beings  like  you  should  enjoy  ?" 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  "  if  I  could  tell  you — and  I 
believe  I  must — to  justify  myself  for  conduct 
which  must  appear  to  you  so  wild,  so  extraor- 
dinary, so  unbecoming — oh,  why,  why  did  those 
people  leave  us  together  ? " 

I  said  nothing  to  this,  because  I  could  not  ex- 
actly gues'  why  they  did;  but  that  they  had 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  183 

done  so,  I  confess,  I  did  not  so  much  regret  as 
my  companion  said  she  did. 

"  If  my  poor  mother  could  look  from  heaven," 
said  she,  "  and  see  me  degraded  as  I  am,  what 
would  she  think  of  all  the  love  and  care  expended 
upon  me  in  my  infancy  and  youth  ?  " 

This  last  touch  was  rather  wounding  to  my 
vanity ;  because,  although  the  lady  might  con- 
sider herself  somewhat  let  down  in  the  world  by 
travelling  in  a  stage  coach,  I  thought  it  a  little 
uncivil  to  refer  to  the  circumstance  while  I  was 
her  fellow-passenger. 

"  If,"  said  I,  "  you  wnll  so  far  trust  me  as  to 
confide  your  sorrows  to  me,  I  pledge  myself  to 
secrecy,  and  even  to  pursue  any  course  which 
you  may  suggest  for  relieving  them." 

"  My  story  is  brief,"  said  my  companion ; 
"  promise  me  not  to  refer  to  it  at  any  future 
period  during  my  life  —  that  is,  if  we  should  ever 
meet  after  to-day,  and  I  will  trust  you." 

Here  the  pressure  of  the  hand  was  unequivo- 
cal ;  and  by  a  corresponding,  yet  perhaps  more 
fervent  token,  I  sealed  the  compact  between  us. 

"  I  am  the  daughter,"  said  she,  "  of  a  general 
officer,  who  with  my  exemplary  mother  resided 
chiefly  in  Somersetshire.  The  cares  and  atten- 
tion of  my  parents  were  afiectionately  devoted  to 
the  education  and  improvement  of  their  only 
child,  and  I  became,  as  they  have   a  thousand 


184  THE  BRIGHTON  COACH. 

times  said,  the  blessing  of  ibeir  declining  years. 
I  was  scarcely  seventeen  when  I  lost  my  father, 
and  his  death  produced  not  only  a  change  of  cir- 
cumstances in  our  family,  but  a  change  of  resi- 
dence. My  mother  and  myself  removed  to  Bath. 
There  we  resided  until  we  were  induced  to  visit 
the  Continent,  where  —  I  am  ashamed  to  go  on  — 
a  nobleman  became  my  avowed  admirer,  and 
made  me  an  offer  of  marriage.  His  rank  was 
exalted,  his  fortune  large,  but  I  could  not  love 
him  :  was  I  wrong  in  refusing  to  marry  him  ?" 

"  Assuredly  not,"  said  I,  amazed  at  the  anima- 
tion which  sparkled  in  eyes  that  lately  flowed 
with  tears,  while  she  referred  to  the  proper  feel- 
ing and  spirit  she  had  exhibited  in  refusing  a 
man  she  could  not  love. 

"  That  refusal,"  continued  tbe  lady,  "  my  poor 
mother  could  not  forgive ;  she  never  did  forgive 
it,  and  I  believe  that  her  anger  is  still  over  me, 
for  what  I  have  since  suffered  seems  like  a  curse. 
My  mother's  disapprobation  of  my  refusal  of  this 
desirable  match  had  a  complicated  origin.  She 
believed,  and  rightly  loo,  that  I  discarded  her 
favorite,  not  only  upon  the  negative  feeling  of 
indifference  or  dislike  towards  him,  but  because  I 
secretly  preferred  another.     She  was  right — " 

"  And  you " 

"  Stay,"  interrupted  she  —  "hear  me  out — as 
(  have  begun,  you  shall  know  all.     I  did  love 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  1S5 

another,  a  being  all  candor,  openness,  honor  and 
principle ;  talented,  accomplished,  gocy,  full  of 
feeling,  and  generous  to  a  fault.  His  name  my 
mother  would  not  hear  me  mention.  She  expel- 
led him  our  house,  excluded  him  from  my  society. 
What  then  ?  —  trick  and  evasion  on  my  part  sup- 
planted obedience  and  sincerity.  The  house  of 
a  friend  afforded  opportunities  for  our  meeting, 
which  my  own  denied — my  youthful  spirit  could 
not  bear  restraint  —  we  eloped  and  were  mar- 
ried." 

"  And  thus  you  secured  your  happiness,"  said  I. 

"  Happiness  ! "  said  my  companion  ;  and  never 
shall  I  forget  the  expression  of  bitterness,  sorrow, 
and  remorse  which  animated  her  countenance  as 
she  pronounced  the  word.  "  Misery — misery 
beyond  redemption  !  My  mother  died  two  years 
after  my  ill-fated  union  with  the  man  of  my 
choice;  and  died  without  forgiving  me  my  sad 
error.  '  No,'  said  my  angrj^  parent ;  '  she  has 
chosen  her  course  and  must  follow  it,  and  when 
I  am  in  my  cold  grave  she  will  repent,  and  I  hope 
be  forgiven.'" 

"  But  how  were  your  prospects  of  happiness 
blighted?"  said  I. 

"Ah!"   said   my   companion,    "there   is  the 
Doint — there  is  the  stors?-  which  I  dare  not  tell. 
Can  I  betray  mj'-  husband  ?     Can  I  accuse  him  ? 
Can  I  commit  him  to  a  stranger  ? " 
16^ 


1S6  THE    BRIGHTON   COACH. 

"  Being  to  a  stranger,"  said  I,  "  and,  one  who» 
according  to  your  own  commands,  is  likely  tfl 
remain  a  stranger  to  him  always,  you  surely  may.' 

"  Then  hear  me,"  said  the  lady :  "  we  had 
scarcely  been  married  three  years  when,  by  some 
fatality  to  me  wholly  unaccountable,  he  became 
infatuated  by  a  woman  —  woman  I  must  call  her 
—  who  led  him  into  gaieties  without  his  wife  ; 
who,  fascinated  by  his  agreeable  qualities,  be- 
came the  monarch  of  his  affections,  the  controller 
of  his  actions,  and  who,  not  satisfied  with  others 
attracting  him  from  his  home  and  all  its  ties, 
excited  in  his  breast  the  fiercest  jealousy  against 


me." 


"  Shocking ! "  said  I ;  and  I  thought  so  as  1 
looked  at  the  bewitching  creature  ;  not  but  that  I 
must  confess  I  did  not  see  the  entire  impossibility 
of  the  existence  of  causes  for  her  husband's  ap- 
prehension, considering  the  confidential  manner 
in  which  she  communicated  all  her  sorrows  to 

me. 

"  Treatment  the  most  barbarous  followed  this," 
said  my  companion  ;  "  a  disbelief  in  my  asser- 
tions, expressed  contemptuously,  marked  all  his 
answers  to  any  request  I  made  to  him.  The 
actions  and  conduct  of  my  life  were  examined 
and  discussed,  until  at  length  he  sent  me  to  the 
coast,  to  live  under  the  roof  of  his  mother,  while 
be  was  constantly  domesticated  with   the   vile 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  1S7 

partner  of  his  gaieties  and  dissipations.  Is  not 
this  enough  to  break  a  heart,  or  is  it  not  enough 
to  drive  a  woman  to  the  commission  of  the  very 
crimes  with  which  she  finds  herself  unjustly 
charged  ? " 

Upon  this  last  part  of  my  fair  friend's  inquiry 
as  to  the  lex  talionis,  I  could  have  but  one  opinion 
to  give,  and  agi'eed  cordially  in  her  view  of  a 
case  to  which,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  she  had 
devoted  some  considerable  portion  of  her  atten- 
tion. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  you  are  now  returning  home  ? '* 
"  I  am,"  replied  the  lady  ;  "  because  the  rival 
I  am  aoomed  to  bear  with  is  no  longer  in  Lon- 
don, and  because  the  avocations  of  my  husband 
will  not  permit  him  to  visit  Paris,  whither  she 
has  gone.  He  thinks  I  am  ignorant  of  all  this, 
and  thinks  that  I  am  a  dupe  to  all  his  artifices : 
and  why  should  I  undeceive  him  ?  " 

"  This  rival,"  said  I,  "  must  be  a  very  potent 
personage,  \i  ijou  are  unable  to  break  the  charm 
which  fascinates  your  husband,  or  dispel  the  in- 
fluence which  she  has  over  him.  You  must  have 
the  power,  if  you  have  the  will  to  do  so." 

"No,"  said  she;  "my  power  is  gone — hia 
heart  is  lost  to  me,  and  is  inaccessible  by  me. 
Oh!  you  little  know  the  treatment  I  have  re- 
ceived from  him  !  —  from  him  whose  whole  soul 
g^as  mine,  but  whose  mind  is  steeled  and  poisoned 


188  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

against  me!  —  No  human  being  can  tell  what  I 
have  suffered  —  what  I  do  suffer  !" 

It  was  clear  I  had  now  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  story ;  all  that  remained  was  to 
make  the  application,  or  deduce  the  moral ;  and, 
I  honestly  confess,  it  appeared  to  me,  that  not- 
withstanding the  object  of  her  journey  from  her 
mother-in-law's  house  at  Brighton  was  to  rejoin 
her  spouse  in  London,  she  would  gladly  have 
availed  herself  of  any  seasonable  opportunity  of 
changing  the  place  of  her  destination.  In  fact,  I 
had  involved  myself  more  deeply  than  I  antici- 
pated, for,  having  become  a  confidante^  and 
having  volunteered  being  a  cavalier,  I  appre- 
hended that  in  a  minute  or  two  I  should  be  called 
forth  as  a  champion,  and,  like  another  knight- 
errant,  have  the  outraged  Damosel  placed  under 
my  especial  care. 

I  confess  I  was  now  rather  anxious  to  ascertain 
who  my  fair  friend  was,  and  what  her  surname 
— her  Christian  name  I  had  discovered  to  be 
Fanny.  This  discovery  I  made  when  she  was 
recapitulating,  more  at  length  than  I  have  thought 
it  necessary  to  do,  the  dialogues  between  herself 
and  her  late  respectable  mother,  in  which  I 
observed  that,  speaking  in  the  maternal  character, 
she  called  herself  by  that  pretty  and  simple  name, 
which  never  was  better  suited  to  a  human  being 
than  herself.      The  animation  and  exertion  of 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  189 

talking,  and  the  excitement  to  which  part  of  he' 
narrative  had  given  rise,  together  with  the  eifect 
of  the  air  on  a  delicate  skin,  had  lighted  up  her 
sweet  countenance,  and  I  was  just  on  the  point 
of  taking  a  very  decisive  step  in  the  affair,  when 
the  coach  suddenly  stopped,  and  the  door  being 
opened,  a  portly  lady,  w4th  a  bandbox,  and  a 
bouquet  as  big  as  a  gooseberrv-bush,  picked  on  pur- 
pose for  her,  as  she  told  us,  was  squeezed  by  the 
high-pressure  power  of  Mr.  Goodman's  right  hand 
into  the  coach.  She  was  followed  by  a  pale-faced 
girl  of  about  ten  years  of  age,  with  a  smaller 
sized  bouquet,  a  basket-full  of  sweetheart-cakes, 
and  a  large  phial  full  of  weak  red  wine  and  water. 

That  I  was  sorry  for  the  interruption  I  must 
candidly  admit ;  but  if  the  new-comers  had  been 
quiescent,  it  would  have  been  more  bearable,  as 
I  might  have  had  time  and  leisure  to  consider 
what  I  had  heard,  and  revolve  in  my  mind  not 
only  the  sad  case  of  the  fascinating  creature  before 
me,  but  to  decide  as  to  what  step  I  myself  should 
take,  when  we  came  to  the  place  of  parting. 

It  is  curious  to  see  how  soon  a  feeling  of  sym- 
pathy, or  congeniality,  or  whatever  else  it  may 
be,  renders  strangers  intimate  ;  and  when  that 
sort  of  intimacy  has  begun,  how  it  continues  and 
shows  itself  by  comparison  with  the  conduct 
observed  to  the  next  strangers  who  appear.  I 
and  my  fair  friend  were  upon  such  good  terms 


190  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

with  each  other,  and  so  distant  to  the  people  whd 
had  just  joined  us,  that  the  big  lady  and  the  little 
girl  no  doubt  took  us,  if  not  for  man  and  wife,  at 
least  for  intimates  of  many  years'  standing ;  and 
then  to  see,  the  moment  they  came  in,  the  care 
with  which  my  fellow-traveller  put  her  bonnet 
straight,  and  pulled  her  tippet  round  her,  and  put 
her  bag  in  order,  just  as  if -she  was  before  com- 
pany !  The  contrast  was  very  flattering  to  me, 
and  so  misflit  have  been  much  more  of  her  con- 
versation,  but  that  she  maintained  it,  in  a  low 
tone,  so  as  not  to  be  heard  by  the  strangers,  for- 
getting, I  conclude,  that  the  pitch  of  voice  which 
rendered  it  inaudible  to  them,  left  me  equally  ill- 
informed. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  the  big  lady,  "  when  does 
this  here  coach  git  to  the  Olephant  and  Castle  ?  " 

"  At  a  little  past  eight,"  said  I. 

"  We  goes  through  Kinnington,  I  believe," 
said  the  lady. 

"  We  do." 

"  If  it  is  quite  agreeable,  sir,"  continued  the 
awful  dame,  "  to  your  good  lady  to  have  that  'ere 
window  up,  I  should  be  uncommon  oblegated, 
because  my  little  Emily  Lawinia  is  jist  out  of  the 
scarlet  fever,  and  I  am  afeard  of  her  taking 
could." 

The  combination  of  blunders  in  this  little 
speech  set  the  late  weeping  Fanny  into  a  laugh , 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  19^ 

for  there  was  in  the  corner  of  her  eye  that  play- 
ful sparkle  which  no  grief  can  quite  subdue.  She 
was  as  readily  alive  to  fun  as  assailable  by  sor- 
row; and  so  it  is  with  all  people  who  feel 
strongly ;  for,  as  Moore  says  in  one  of  his 
melodies, 

"  The  heart  that  is  soonest  awake  to  the  flowers. 
Is  always  the  first  to  he  touched  hy  the  thorns." 

The  plump  lady,  however,  found  that  she  had 
made  some  mistake ;  and  not  at  all  taking  into 
the  account  that  people  in  general  do  not  very 
much  approve  of  shutting  themselves  up  in  a 
coach,  hermetically  sealed,  with  patients  in  the 
scarlet  fever,  set  me  and  my  "  good  lady"  down 
as  two  proud,  conceited  upstarts,  and  revenged 
nerself,  to  our  utter  dismay,  by  dissipating  the 
sorrows  of  silence,  in  enjoying  the  solace  of  pep- 
permint lozenges,  one  of  which  she  herself  took, 
and  administered  another  to  her  darling  pet  on 
the  opposite  seat ;  so  that  while  my  companion 
was  gratified  by  the  redolence  of  the  fragrant 
herb  through  the  medium  of  the  old  lady,  I  was 
indulged  by  the  more  active  and  efficient  exer- 
Uons  of  the  living  anatomy  next  her. 

The  coach  rattled  on,  and  I  beheld  my  opposite 
neighbor  no  longer  as  a  stranger.  She  leaned 
forward  just  as  we  passed  Kennington  turnpike, 
and  asked  me  whether  I  went  on  to  Charing- 
Cross,  or  left  the  coach  at  the   Elephant  and 


192  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

Castle.  I  told  her  that  I  stuck  by  the  ship  to  the 
last,  and  hoped  she  would  permit  me  to  assist  her 
in  securing-  her  luggage.  It  was  at  this  period, 
in  the  midst  of  the  jangle  of  the  vehicle  and  the 
clatter  of  the  Macadamized  road,  that  I  endea- 
vored to  induce  her  to  tell  me  her  name.  This 
she  positively  refused.  Then  I  looked  about  for 
the  superscription  of  a  letter,  which  sometimes 
very  inflexible  ladies,  under  similar  circumstances, 
will  considerately  let  slip  —  and  thus,  one  gets  in 
a  moment  accidentally  what  worlds  would  not 
tempt  them  deliberately  to  disclose — but  no — it 
was  too  dark  to  read  writing  ;  yet,  I  was  so  con- 
vinced that  she  actually  held  a  card  ready  to  give 
me,  that  I  endeavored  gently  to  force  her  delicate 
right  hand  open,  in  order  to  obtain  the  desired 
information.  Bat,  I  found  I  was  wrong;  she 
seemed  determined  either,  that  I  should  know 
nothing  more  of  her,  or,  if  I  did,  that  I  should  at 
least  have  the  trouble,  or  pleasure,  as  the  case 
might  be,  of  hunting  after  my  intelligence. 

Failing  in  the  main  point  of  my  inquiries,  I 
endeavored  to  ascertain  what  part  of  London 
Bhe  resided  in,  and  tried  every  street,  square,  row 
and  comer,  from  Grove-road,  Paddington,  to 
Dog-row,  Whitechapel,  in  order  to  excite  an 
affirmative  nod,  and  one  of  those  bewitching 
smiles  which  I  began  to  love — but  no.  Well, 
thought  I,  the  time  must  come  when  you  musf 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  19^ 

go,  and  then  I  shall  follow ;  and  so,  if  you  choose 
to  be  silent  and  uncommunicative,  and  dignified 
and  disagreeable,  I  can  be  revenged  upon  youj 
not  that  I  could  believe  a  woman  who  v,*ould 
generously  confide  the  sorrows  of  her  heart  to  a 
man,  could  be  ill-natured  enough  to  withhold  the 
trifling  addition  of  telling  him  where  that  heart 
was  doomed  to  beat. 

The  moment  arrived,  and  we  reached  the 
Elephant  and  Castle.  The  sudden  check  of 
Goodman's  team  took  my  poor  Fanny  by  surprise, 
and  threw  her  forward,  so  as  to  bring  her  some- 
what in  contact  with  myself;  but  the  lamps  of 
the  coach  had  been  lighted  at  Smithers-bottom, 
and  we  were  in  the  dark,  compared  with  objects 
without;  and  never  shall  I  forget  the  hurried 
scramble  into  which  she  "  righted  herself,"  as  her 
eye  glanced  on  a  countenance  outside  the  car- 
riage, brightly  illuminated  by  the  lamp  on  that 
side  —  she  seemed  thunder-struck. 

"  My  God !  "  said  she,  "  here 's  Charles  !  " 

"  Who  the  devil  is  Charles  ?  "  said  I. 

"Hush!  —  my   husband,"   replied    the   lady 
"he's  coming:  —  I'm  so  glad  these  people  are  in 
the  coach." 

The  door  opened,  and  a  hand  was  introduced. 
"  Fanny  ! "  said  the  master  of  that  hand,  in  a  soft 
tone  of  endearment. 

"  Here  I  am,  love,"  said  my  companion. 
17 


194  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

"Alone! — what  —  quite  full?"  said  the  hut> 
band. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  the  wife  ;  "  and  so  tired.  1 
never  was  so  glad  to  get  out  of  a  coach  in  my 
life." 

In  a  moment  I  thotight  I  recognized  the  '^oice 
of  the  husband.  I  coiled  myself  into  the  corn  '• 
She  would  have  got  out  without  my  being  be- 
trayed, if  she  had  not  dropped  her  glove. — Why 
the  deuce  had  she  taken  it  off?  —  A  light  was 
sent  for,  and  the  moment  it  came  I  beheld,  in  the 
object  of  alt  my  indignation,  and  the  cause  of  all 
her  sorrow  —  the  oldest  friend  of  my  life  — 
Charles  Franklin. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  he,  the  moment  he  recog- 
nized me,  "  is  that  you  !  —  fellow-traveller  with 
my  wife,  and  not  kncwn  to  each  other? — this  is 
curious  ! " 

"  Franklin  ! "  said  I,  in  a  sort  of  tremor. 

"Do  you  know  my  husband,  sir?"  said  the 
lady — "  how  very  strange  I" 

Yes,  thought  I,  I  wish  it  were  impossible. 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  for  these  ten  years," 
said  Franklin.  "  Come  home  with  us — you 
must  and  shall — I " 


"  Indeed,"  said  I—"  I " 

"  Oh,  come,  come,"  said  Franklin  ;  "  you  can 
have  no  engagement — you  shall  have  no  engage- 
ment to  supersede  this.     I  rejoice  in  having  found 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  195 

you  after  so  long  a  separation" — and  then  Mr. 
Franklin  introduced  me  to  his  wife  in  due  form, 
much  to  the  astonishment  of  our  fellow-travellers 
at  the  other  side  of  the  coach,  who  concluded,  by 
what  they  had  seen,  as  indeed  they  had  shown 
by  what  they  had  said,  that  we  were,  if  actually 
not  man  and  wife,  two  of  the  oldest  and  most 
intimate  possible  friends. 

I  have  a  melting  heart  in  the  way  of  a  propo- 
sition from  a  friend,  especially  when  it  is  made 
under  extraordinary  circumstances,  like  those 
which  accompanied  and  preceded  Franklin's; 
but  altogether  1  sincerely  declare,  that  I  never 
was  more  embarrassed  in  my  existence.  I  still 
wished  to  see  the  adventure  through,  and  behold 
my  Niobe  in  her  own  domicile.  1  looked  to  my 
charming  companion  for  a  telegraphic  signal.  If 
she  had  frowned  a  negative,  I  should  have 
repeated  the  signal,  and  strenuously  declined 
going ;  but  by  the  glare  of  the  lamp  at  the  inn 
door  1  thought  I  saw  affirmative  in  the  glance  of 
her  eye,  which  induced  me  to  believe  that  my 
visit  would  not  annoy  her ;  and  so,  really,  rather 
than  doom  her  to  a  tete  a  tete  with  her  tyrant — 
though  he  was  my  friend — I  consented  to  put 
myself  in  a  position  as  irksome  almost  as  position 
could  be. 

We  left  the  coach — my  trips  from  Brighton 
being  periodical  and  frequent,  I  had  no  luggage. 


196  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

and  we  proceeded,  with  the  maid  and-  the  band- 
boxes, to  my  friend's  house  —  of  coursB  I  shall  be 
excused  mentioning  the  locality — but  it  was  one 
of  the  prettiest  bijoux  I  ever  saw  :  good  taste  pre- 
dominate J  in  every  part  of  its  decorations,  and  I 
soon  discovered,  by  certain  drawings  which  were 
pendent  on  the  walls,  that  my  fair  companion 
was  an  artist,  while  the  pianoforte  and  harp  be- 
spoke her  (as  she  had  herself,  indeed,  informed 
me  she  was)  accomplished  in  other  sciences. 

After  a  suitable  delay  of  preparation,  such  as 
taking  off  things,  and  refreshing,  and  all  that,  our 
dinner  was  served — nothing  could  be  nicer  or 
neater. 

"  Fanny,  dearest,"  said  Frankhn,  "let  me  give 
you  this  wing ;  I  know,  my  life,  you  like  it." 

"  No,  Charles,  dear,  not  a  bit  more,  thank  you," 
said  Fanny. 

"  Come,  love,  a  glass  of  wine  with  me,"  said 
Charles  ;  "  'tis  an  old  fashion,  but  we  have  been 
apart  some  weeks,  so  our  friend  will  excuse  it." 

♦'  To  be  sure  he  will,"  said  Fanny  ;  and  they 
drank  to  each  other  with  looks  admirably  suited 
to  the  action.  . 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  said  Franklin,  "  that  after 
so  long  a  separation,  we  should  meet  in  this  ex- 
traordinary manner,  and  that  Fanny  sho  ild  not 
have  found  you  out,  or  that  you  should  not  have 
discovered  her ! " 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  197 


<i 


Why,  my  dear  Charles,"  said  Mrs.  Frank- 
in,  "  strangers  do  not  talk  to  each  other  in  stage 
coaches." 

"  Very  true,  my  angel,"  said  Mr.  Franklin  ; 
"  but  some  accident  might  have  brought  your 
name  to  his  ears,  or  his  to  yours." 

While  all  this  was  going  on,  I  sat  in  a  state  of 
perfect  amazement.  Charles  Franklin  and  I  had 
been  schoolfellows,  and  continued  friends  to  a 
certain  period  of  life ;  he  was  all  that  his  wife 
had  described  him  to  be,  in  the  earlier  part  of  his 
life,  but  I  confess  I  saw  none  of  the  heartlessness, 
the  suspicion,  the  neglect,  the  violence,  the  in- 
attention of  which  she  also  spoke ;  nor  did  I 
perceive,  in  the  bright  animated  look  of  pleasure 
which  beamed  over  her  intelligent  countenance, 
the  slightest  remains  of  the  grief  and  sorrow  by 
which  she  had  been  weighed  down  on  the 
journey. 

"  Do  you  feel  tired,  my  Fanny  ?  "  said  Franklin. 

*'  No,  dear,"  replied  the  lady,  *'  not  very,  now ; 
but  those  coaches  are  so  small  when  there  are 
four  people  in  them,  that  one  gets  cramped." 

Here  I  felt  a  sort  of  tingling  sensation  behind 
my  ears,  anticipatory  of  what  appeared  to  m.e  to 
be  a  very  natural  question  on  the  part  of  Frank- 
lin, as  to  whether  we  had  been  full  during  the 
whole  journey.  Mrs.  Franklin,  however,  saw  in 
a  moment  the  false  move  she  had  made,  and 
17^ 


198  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

tlierelbre  directed  the  thoughts  of  her,  barbarous 
husband  from  the  subject,  by  telling  him  she  had 
a  letter  for  him  from  dear  mamma — meaning  his 
mother,  under  whose  surveillance  she  had  been 
forcibly  immured  at  Brighton. 

About  this  period  Fanny  retired,  and  proceeded 
to  the  drawing-room,  cautioning  us,  as  she 
departed,  "  not  to  be  long."  Charles  flew  to  the 
door,  and  opened  it  for  his  departing  fair — he 
accompanied  her  beyond  its  threshold,  and  I 
thoujrht  I  heard  a  sound  of  something  very  like  a 
kiss,  as  they  parted. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  said  he,  resuming  his 
seat  and  pushing  the  wine  towards  me,  "  that  you 
should  have  thus  accidentally  fallen  in  with 
Fanny!  — she   is  very  pretty j  don't   you  think 

so?" 

"  More  than  pretty,  surely,"  said  I ;  "  there  is 
an  intelligence,  an  expression,  a  manner  about 
her,  to  me  quite  captivating." 

"  If  you  were  present  when  she  is  animated," 
said  her  husband,  "  you  would  see  that  playful- 
ness of  countenance,  or  rather,  the  variety  of 
expression  to  advantage  ;  her  mind  lights  up  her 
features  wonderfully :  there  is  no  want  of  spirit 
about  her,  I  can  assure  you." 

*'  I  was  quite  surprised  when  I  heard  of  yout 
elopement,"  said  I. 

"  Her  mother,"  said  Charles,  "  an  old  woman 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH.  199 

as  proud  as  Lucifer,  was  mad  after  a  title  for  her, 
and  some  old  broken-down  lord  had  been  wheedled, 
or  coaxed,  or  cajoled,  or  flattered  into  making  tier 
an  offer,  which  she  would  not  accept ;  and  then 
the  old  lady  led  her  such  a  life,  that  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  the  step  which  made  her  mine." 

"  And  ensured  your  happiness." 

"  Why  yes,"  said  Franklin,  "  upon  my  word, 
taking  all  things  into  the  scale,  I  see  no  cause  to 
repent  the  step.  Between  ourselves  —  of  course. 
I  speak  as  an  old  friend  —  Fanny  has  not  the 
very  best  temper  in  the  world,  and  of  late  has 
taken  it  into  her  head  to  be  jealous.  An  old 
acquaintance  of  mine,  whom  I  knew  long  before 
I  was  married,  has  been  over  here  from  France, 
and  I  have  been  a  good  deal  about  with  her, 
during  her  stay ;  and  as  I  did  not  think  her  quite 
a  person  to  introduce  to  Fanny,  she  took  huff  at 
my  frequent  absence  from  home,  and  began  to 
play  off  a  sort  of  retaliation,  as  she  fancied  it, 
with  a  young  lieutenant  of  lancers  of  our  ac- 
quaintance. I  cut  that  matter  very  short  ;  I 
proposed  an  excursion  to  Brighton  to  visit  my 
mother,  to  which  she  acceded,  and  when  I  had 
settled  her  out  of  reach  of  her  young  hero,  and 
under  the  eye  of  iny  mamma,  I  returned  to  fulfil 
my  engagements  in  London.  And  now  that  this 
fair  obstacle  to  her  happiness  has  returned  to  the 
comment,  I  have  recalled  my  better  half." 


200  THh    BRIGHTON    COACH 

"You  seem,  however,  to  understand  e^ch  othel 
pretty  well,"  said  I. 

"  To  be  sure,"  replied  Charles,  "  the  only  point 
is  to  keep  her  in  a  good  humor,  for,  e7itre  nom^ 
her  temper  is  the  very  devil — once  know  how  to 
manage  that,  and  all  goes  well,  and  I  flatter  my- 
self I  have  ascertained  the  mode  of  doing  that  to 
a  nicety." 

Whether  it  was,  that  Fanny  was  apprehensive, 
that  under  the  genial  influence  of  her  husband's 
wine,  or  upon  the  score  of  old  friendship,  I  might 
let  slip  some  part  of  the  day's  adventure,  I  know 
not,  but  we  were  very  early  summoned  to  coffee, 
and,  I  confess,  I  was  by  no  means  displeased  at 
the  termination  of  a  conversation  which  every 
moment  I  expected  would  take  some  turn  that 
would  inevitably  produce  a  recurrence  to  the 
journey,  and,  perhaps,  eventually,  tend  to  betray 
the  confidence  which  the  oppressed  wife  had 
reposed  in  me. 

We  repaired  to  the  drawmg  room. — Fanr.  - 
was  reclining  on  the  sofa,  looking  as  fascinatin/ 
as  ever  I  saw  a  lady  look. 

"  Charles,  dearest,"  said  she,  "  I  thought  you 
would  never  come  up ;  you  and  your  friend  must 
have  had  something  very  interesting  to  talk  about 
\o  detain  you  so  long." 

"  We  didn't  think  it  long.  Fan,"  said  Charles, 


THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 


20l 


«becau93  we  really  were  talking  on  a  very  inter- 
esting subject— we  were  discussing  yoti." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Charles  !"  exclaimed  the  lady, 
«  you  flatter  me  ;  and  what  did  he  say  of  me  ?" 
said  she,  addressing  me. 

"  That,"  said  I,  "  I  cannot  tell  you :  I  never 
betray  anything  that  is  told  me  in  confidence." 

Her  looks  explained  that  she  was  particularly 
glad  to  hear  me  say  so,  and  the  smile  which 
followed  was  gracious  in  the  extreme. 

"  Now,"  said  Charles,  "  that  you  have  thus 
strangely  found  your  way  here,  I  hope  we  shall 
see  you  often." 

"  And  I  hope  so,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin ; 
"  I  really  believe  sometimes  that  thmgs  which  we 
blind  mortals  call  chance  are  preordained.  I 
,was  not  coming  by  the  coach  in  which  I  met  you, 
nor  should  I  have  been  in  it,  if  the  other  coach 

had  not  been  full,  and  then " 

"  I  should  have  lost  the  pleasure,"  said  I,  "  of 
seeing  an  old  friend  enjoying  the  delights  of 
domestic  happiness." 

Here  Fanny  gave  me  a  look  expressive  of  tne 
perfect  misery  of  her  condition  ;  and  Charles, 
whose  back  was  turned  towards  us  at  the  instant, 
in  coming  up  the  room  again,  while  her  back  was 
turned  to  him,  made  a  sort  of  face,  somethmg 
between  the  sorrowful  and  the  grotesque,  which 
I  shall  never  forget,  but  which  indicated,  most 


202  THE    BRIGHTON    COACH. 

unequivocally,  what  his  feelings  on  the  subjecl 
were. 

Shortly  after  this  the  happy  pair  began  to  be 
so  excessively  kind  and  tender  to  each  other  that 
I  thought  it  was  quite  time  to  beat  a  retreat,  and 
accordingly  took  my  leave,  earnestly  pressed  by 
both  parties  to  repeat  my  visit  as  often  as  I  could, 
and  to  let  them  see  as  much  of  me  as  possible. 
1  returned  them  my  warmest  thanks  for  their 
kindness,  but  named  no  day  for  my  return,  and 
wished  them  good  night. 

I  have  not  been  there  since.  I  called,  indeed, 
once,  and  Charles  called  on  me,  but  I  have  been 
little  in  London  during  the  last  season,  and  they 
have  been  much  in  the  country.  I  could  not 
have  equitably  maintained  an  intimacy  with  them, 
for  I  felt  neutrality  would  be  quite  out  oi  the 
question  ;  thus,  although  the  recurrence  of  my 
old  friendship  with  Charles  Franklin  has  been 
productive  of  no  very  satisfactory  results  as 
relate  to  ourselves  personally,  it  has  given  me  an 
additional  light  in  my  path  through  the  world, 
and  now,  whenever  I  see  a  picture  of  perfect  hap- 
piness presented  to  my  eyes,  affection  on  one 
side  and  devotion  on  the  other,  assiduity  met  by 
kindness,  and  solicitude  repaid  with  smiles,  in- 
stead of  feeling  my  heart  glow  with  rapture  at 
the  beautiful  scene  before  me,  I  instantly  recol- 
lect that  I  once  travelled  to  London  in  the 
Brighton  Coach. 


20 


o 


THE  STOLEN  PIECE  OF  LINEN. 

BY    S.    A. 

We  all  may  remember  the  wonderful  stir  and 
bustle  excited  in  Ireland  a  few  short  years  ago  on 
the  subject  of  Irish  manufactures:  much  was 
talked  and  very  much  promised,  and  some  pres- 
ent employment  and  temporary  relief  followed 
this  ephemeral  revival  of  industry ;  but  like  an- 
other more  recent  and  happier  movement,  it 
soon  became  suspected  of  bearing  a  political  ten- 
dency; the  vain-glorious  boasted,  the  narrow- 
hearted  trembled,  as  each  imagined  the  effort  in- 
tended to  coerce  English  influence  and  cripple 
English  resources;  and  vain  and  ridiculous  as 
the  idea  may  now  appear,  there  were  not  wanting 
shrewd  heads  to  calculate  the  amount  of  injury  to 
be  inflicted  on  our  elder  sister  by  rejecting  the 
work  of  her  hands  for  the  sake  of  the  manufac- 
tures of  the  Emerald  Isle. 

It  were  needless  now  to  expatiate  on  the  absurd- 
ity of  an  idea  which  soon  lost  its  most  sanguine 
supporters ;  and  yet  when  we  look  back  on  this 
effort,  we  cannot  but  regret  that  its  untrained 
and  desultory  energy  should  have  collapsed  into 


204  THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN. 

lifelessness,  into  nearly  a  total  abandonment  of 
individual  exertion  in  home  manufacture ;  that 
Irish  men  and  women  should  be  tempted  by  the 
gay  colors  and  low  prices  of  the  flimsy  articles 
which  are  now  brought  within  the  reach  of  the 
remotest,  within  the  means  of  the  poorest,  and 
have  superseded  the  coarser  but  far  more-endur- 
ing fabrics,  the  stout,  tough  bandle-linen,  the 
warm,  rain-defying  frieze,  and  the  bright-green 
or  scarlet  stufT-petticoat,  which  formed  the  cloth- 
ing of  the  peasantry,  and  gave  life,  interest,  and 
'  occupation  to  the  hours  of  the  female  portion  of 
the  com^munity  in  our  younger  days. 

Our  younger  days, — not  alone  amongst  the  pea- 
santry, but  high  up  into  the  better  ranks  in  those 
good  old  times,  spread  the  ambition  of  producing 
and  using  home  manufactures ;  and  deficient 
indeed  would  that  lady  be  deemed  in  the  then 
necessary  arts  of  housekeeping,  however  else  ex- 
celling, who  could  not  at  the  end  of  the  year 
exhibit  in  many  a  needful  article,  the  varied  pro- 
duce of  spinning-wheel  and  loom ;  and  thus,  by 
example  as  well  as  precept,  encourage  her  depen- 
dants to  do  likewise. 

It  was  our  fortune,  in  the  days  we  allude  to,  to 
spend  some  time  with  a  kind  and  valued  relative, 
who,  in  addition  to  many  an  acquirement,  many 
an  endowment  of  heart  and  mind,  added  yet  more 
that  distinguishing  trait  of  a  "  virtuous  woman," 


THE    STOLEN    I'lECE    OF    LINEN.  20b 

*  she  sought  wool  and  flax,  and  woiked  willingly 
with  her  hands."  The  day  of  our  arrival  wa* 
marked  by  another  hardly  less  interesting :  a  piece 
of  fine  linen,  which  had  for  monthLs  in  its  various 
stages  engaged  the  time  and  attention  of  the 
family,  had  just  been  brought  home  from  the 
weaver,  and  was  unanimously  pronounced  in  ex- 
cellence surpassing  any  piece  which  had  ever 
come  or  gone  before. 

A  family  council  was  held  as  to  its  destination 
and  distribution ;  each  member's  wants  and  claims 
discussed  ;  many  an  unreasonable  demand,  laugh- 
ingly or  saucily  made  by  the  junior  aspirants, 
just  as  good-humoredly  met  or  rejected  by  the 
kind  distributor,  until  at  length  all  was  fairly  set- 
tled to  the  satisfaction  of  all  concerned.  But 
then  another  discussion  arose ;  the  younger  ones 
were  for  sending  their  property  at  once  to  the 
public  bleach-green,  where  alone,  they  contended, 
it  could  be  properly  whitened  and  dressed  for  use; 
but  the  sage  and  experienced  mother  made  an 
eloquent  speech  in  favor  of  home-bleaching, 
brought  many  an  instance  of  pieces  injured  and 
soon  wearing  out,  spoke  darkly  of  vitriol  and 
other  deleterious  processes,  and  finally  wound  up 
her  objections  by  mentioning  the  fact  of  a  paper- 
mill  having  been  lately  established  by  the  propri- 
etors of  the  bleach-green,  for  no  other  purpose, 
she  argued,  than  to  take  advantage  of  the  pulp 
18 


206  THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN. 

and   the   substance   which   would    infallibly  be 
squeezed  out  of  every  piece  intrusted  to  their 

care. 

The  last  argument  was  unanswerable ;  it 
carried  the  day,  and  without  one  dissentient 
voice,  consent  was  given  that  this  piece  of  joint 
property  should  undergo  its  final  operations  at 
home  under  the  personal  inspection  of  its  owners. 
Accordingly,  the  following  day,  without  further 
loss  of  time,  it  was  laid  along  by  the  bank  of  a 
limpid  stream  which  flowed  through  the  lawn 
near  the  house,  carefully  pinned  down  to  the 
grass  by  loops  at  the  sides,  and  commanded  from 
all  the  windows,  so  that  neither  harm  nor  mis- 
chance could  befall  it  unawares. 

For  many  a  week  there  it  lay,  coming  gradu- 
ally to  perfection  by  a  process  slow  but  sure ;  the 
summer  sun  brightly  shone  on  it  through  the 
day,  the  dews  fell  softly  over  it  by  night,  and 
many  a  run  had  the  bright-haired  children  down 
to  the  little  stream,  delighted  with  permission  to 
dabble  in  the  water,  and  pour  it  over  the  piece 
when  it  became  too  suddenly  dried  up.  At 
length  it  seemed  the  force  of  bleaching  could  no 
further  go,  and  one  week  more  of  free  air  and 
sunshine  was  considered  the  very  utmost  requi- 
site to  bring  it  to  perfection,  when  early  one 
morning  a  sound  of  lamentation  echoed  through 
the  house ;  abrupt  sentences,  in  which  the  words 


THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN.  207 

Piece  of  linen  !"  — "  Thieves  !"—"  Stolen  !" 
*- confusedly  mingled,  reached  and  roused  the 
sleepers  ;  one  simultaneous  rush  to  the  windows 
was  succeeded  by  looks  of  blank  dismay,  for  no 
snowy  stripe  bordered  the  margin  of  the  little 
stream  :  in  monotonous  and  unbroken  verdure 
the  lawn  descended  to  the  water's  edge ;  in  fact 
the  piece  was  gone  —  absent  without  leave  — 
stolen  by  some  thievish  prowler  during  the  night. 

'Twere  vain  to  attempt  a  description  of  the 
indignation  and  regrets  which  followed.  To 
their  credit,  however,  be  it  spoken,  nobody  uttered 
the  portentous  phrase,  "  I  told  you  so  ;"  that  un- 
gracious, though  common  little  sentence,  was  left 
unspoken,  though  fairly  earned  by  poor  Mrs. 
Carr's  mistaken  management ;  but  she  so  frankly 
blamed  herself  for  her  advice  and  suspicions 
about  the  bleach-green,  that  cold  indeed  would 
have  been  the  disposition  which  could  have 
added  reproaches  to  her  own. 

In  silence  and  disappointment  the  little  party 
assembled  in  the  breakfast  parlor,  the  windows 
of  which  looked  on  the  scene  of  their  loss,  and 
as  they  sat  round  their  table,  their  downcast 
eyes,  resting  on  the  snowy  cloth,  received  but 
little  comfort,  as  that  more  fortunate  specimen  of 
home  manufacture  reminded  them  of  its  luckless 
successor. 

A  week  passed  by :   every  exertion  had  been 


208  THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINE?J. 

made  in  vain ;  no  tidings  of  the  missing  article ; 
and  the  whole  family  were  beginning  to  try  and 
forget  it,  or  reconcile  themselves  philosophically 
to  its  loss,  when  one  morning,  at  breakfast,  Mrs. 
Carr  suddenly  desisted  from  the  operation  of 
pouring  out  tea,  and  looking  round  the  circle, 
very  gravely  said,  "  I  am  sure  you  will  all  be 
surprised,  and  perhaps  laugh  at  what  I  say,  but 
I  dreamed  last  night  the  piece  was  found  ;  I  know 
the  exact  spot,  and  am  convinced  it  is  there." 

The  younger  children  looked  wonderingly  at  a 
speech  so  unlike  their  mother ;  some  of  the  elder 
ones  did  laugh,  but  only  for  a  moment,  and  their 
father  replied  in  a  lively  tone,  "  Why,  Mary,  you 
have  taken  the  loss  of  that  piece  so  much  to 
heart,  that  I  believe  you  are  dreaming  of  it  not 
only  by  night  but  by  day  also  ;  but  think  no  more 
about  it,"  added  he,  affectionately.  "  I  believe  I 
am  the  chief  loser,  as  I  was  to  have  had  a  new 
set  of  shirts,  and  I  will  promise  to  manage  very 
well  with  those  I  have  until  another  year  comes 
round."  Mrs.  Carr's  gentle  eyes  silently  thanked 
her  husband,  but  she  persisted  in  her  statement, 
and  desired  her  eldest  boy  to  run  off  as  far  as  the 
well  in  the  grove,  and  behind  the  little  ruined 
wall,  if  he  did  not  find  the  linen,  she  would  never 
set  up  for  a  dreamer  again. 

The  boy,  half  laughingly,  as  if  merely  to  grat- 
ify h-pr.  obeyed ;  and  during  the  mterval  of  his 


THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN.  209 

Jibsence,  in  spite  of  all  their  incredulity,  a  sort 
of  still  suspense  stole  over  the  rest;  soon,  how- 
ever, interrupted  by  a  shout  announcing  his  re- 
turn; another  and  another  followed,  each  eloquent 
of  success,  and  the  whole  party,  rushing  with  one 
accord  from  the  breakfast-room,  beheld  him 
bounding  along  with  triumphant  looks,  bearing 
the  heavy  burden,  as  if  it  were  but  a  feather  in 
his  hands. 

Many  an  expression  of  wondering  surprise, 
many  a  random  guess  followed  this  discovery. 
Mr.  Carr  turned  an  inquiring  glance  on  his  wife; 
bul  the  grave  expression  before  noticed  had 
returned  to  her  countenance ;  it  might,  perhaps, 
have  been  that  of  awe  at  the  realizing  of  her 
vision  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  it  seemed  to  say,  "  I  will 
not  be  questioned;"  so  shaking  his  head  with  a 
mysterious  smile,  he  reentered  the  house,  and 
quietly  finished  his  breakfast. 

Before  long,  as  may  be  imagined,  the  fame  of 
Mrs.  Carr's  dream  spread  far  and  near ;  it  was 
regarded  as  little  short  of  a  miracle,  and  won  for 
her  the  respectful  and  somev/hat  superstitious 
deference  of  the  credulous  peasantry  in  her 
neighborhood ;  she,  meanwhile  unconscious,  oi 
unwitting  of  this  claim  on  public  veneration,  quiei 
and  unpretending  as  ever,  pursued  the  noiseless 
tenor  of  her  way. 

The  summer  holidays  passed  away  ;  and  when 
18^ 


210  THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    J.INEN. 

mirthful,  joyous  Christmas  came  roui^d,  it  found 
us  once  again  domesticated  within  that  dear  and 
social  home.  Many  a  preparation  ushered  in 
the  festival,  —  light  the  burden  of  the  voluntary 
tasks  ?  agerly  undertaken  by  all. 

Our  lot  was  to  assist  m  the  arrangement  of 
sundry  articles  of  comfortable  clothing  for  distri- 
bution amongst  the  laborers  and  neighboring 
poor,  and  we  had  nearly  finished  the  assortment, 
and  labelled  each  different  parcel  with  the  own- 
er's name,  when  Mrs.  Carr  entered  the  room 
with  a  small  basket  in  her  hand,  and  addressing 
one  of  the  busy  group,  desired  to  have  Nora 
Sullivan's  name  written  on  a  card  and  fastened 
to  the  handle. 

"  Nora  Sullivan,  mamma ! "  echoed  one  of  the 
girls  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  "  What  on  earth  can 
you  have  to  send  to  her  ?  I  did  n't  think  you 
would  give  any  encouragement  to  that  set  ?  " 

"  They  are  bad  enough,  truly,"  replied  Mrs 
Carr ;  "  but  Nora  is  not  like  them ;  she  is  a  dove 
out  of  a  raven's  nest." 

"  A  rara  avis ! "  cried  Harry,  though  it  was  in 
the  holidays;  but  unheeding  the  interruption, 
Mrs.  Carr  continued,  "  Ask  me  no  questions 
now,  for  I  have  reasons  which  I  cannot  for  a 
while  explain." 

"  In  the  mean  time,  mamma,  is  it  any  harm  to 
iake  a  peep  into  the  basket  ? " 


THE    STOLEN   PIECE    OF   LINEN.  211 

'•  Not  the  least  in  the  world,  provided  you  do 
not  tumble  the  contents,  or  say  a  word  about 
them  until  I  give  you  leave." 

With  these  words  Mrs.  Carr  left  the  room ; . 
and  as  may  be  imagined,  we  were  not  slow  in 
availing   ourselves    of  the  permission.      Elinor 
Carr  raised  the  lid  of  the  basket,  and  peeping  in 
with  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  opened  it  wider, 
and  drew  forth,  first  a  neat  little  cap  faithfully 
trimmed  with  white  satin-riband,  then  a  muslin 
apron  embroidered  and  frilled  all  round;    and, 
last  of  all,  a  handsome  dress  of  chintz,  such  as 
was  then  worn,  with  bright  flowers  of  every  hue 
strewed  all  over  a  white  ground. 

"  What   in   the  world  can  mamma   mean  ? " 

cried  on|ptind  all. 

''This  is  actually  a  bride's  trousseau r'  ex- 
claimed Elinor;  "and  now  1  do  remember 
mamma's  working  at  it  during  the  autumn,  and 
never  telling  us  what  she  was  about.  What 
fancy  can  she  have  taken  to  Nora  Sullivan  ?" 

"Nora  Sullivan!"  repeated  one  of  the  little 
boys,  who  had  been  indulgently  admitted  to  twine 
the  parcels  and  to  do  other  clumsy  jobs,  ''Nora, 
why  she  is  going  to  be  married  to  our  Brian,  as 
soon  as  Advent  is  over  ! " 

"Well,  no  good  in  saying  or  guessing  any 
more  now,"  said  quiet  Mary.  "  Mamma  told  ua 
we  slould  hear  all  when  she  wished,  and  w« 


212  THE    STOLEN   PIECE    OF    LINEN. 

must  wait  until  then."  So,  oblio-ed  to  be  con- 
tent  with  this  assurance,  the  in3'sterious  articles 
were  replaced  in  the  basket,  the  direction  written, 
and  its  place  allotted  for  distribution  among  its 
more  humble  companions. 

Wc  were  all  gathered  round  the  fire  a  few 
nights  after  the  foregoing,  and  noisy  as  youthful 
joyous  spirits  well  may  be,  when  Mrs.  Carr  took 
advantage  of  a  sudden  lull  in  the  conveisation,  if 
such  our  running  fire  of  mirth  could  be  called,  to 
inquire  if  we  still  felt  any  curiosity  about  the 
basket,  the  contents  of  which  had  been  viewed 
with  such  suspicious  glances  on  Christmas-eve. 
All  eyes  were  immediately  turned  on  her,  every 
voice  unanimous  in  requesting  the  promised  ex- 
planation. Mr.  Carr  stirred  the  fire  to  throw  an 
additional  light  on  the  subject,  and  the  good  lady 
of  the  house  thus  began  :  — 

"  You  may  remember  last  summer,  the  time 
our  piece  of  linen  was  stolen  ;" — a  ready  assent 
from  all  interrupted  the  thread  of  the  narrative, 
and  Mrs.  Carr  had  to  recommence,  first  depre- 
cating any  further  comments.  "  Well,  as  you 
all  may  recollect  also,  I  was  very  much  annoyed, 
and,  indeed,  mortified  at  my  loss.  I  did  not 
think  there  was  a  being  in  the  country  who 
would  have  treated  me  so  badly,  and  I  feared 
that  for  the  future  we  could  never  asfain  feel 
anything  like    security   i)i    the   honesty  of  the 


THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN.  213 

neighborhood.  I  walked  out  one  evening  quite 
alone,  thinking  very  much  of  these  things,  and  fol- 
lowed the  pathway  along  into  the  little  wood,  until 
I  came  opposite  the  ruined  wall  that  used  to  cover 
the  old  well.  Here  my  attention  wag  arrested 
by  a  rustling  sound  amongst  the  shrubs,  and  as  I 
looked  to  discover  the  cause,  they  were  parted 
asunder,  and  out  crept  a  young  girl,  fair,  but  very 
pale,  and  seemingly  under  the  influence  of  ex- 
treme agitation.  As  I  looked  at  her,  even  at  that 
distance,  I  could  perceive  that  she  trembled  vio- 
lently, but,  apparently  making  an  effort  at  compo- 
sure, she  slowly  advanced  a  few  steps,  and  sink- 
ing on  her  knees  before  me,  bent  down  her  head, 
sobbing  bitterly  and  wringing  her  hands.  You 
may  imagine  I  could  not  unmoved  behold  such 
distress,  and  tried  all  in  m}'  power  to  reassure 
her,  inquiring  what  could  ail  her  and  who  she 
was  ?  My  last  question  w^as  easiest  answered ; 
she  faltered  out  that  her  name  was  Nora  Sulli- 
van, and  I  then  remembered  the  little  blue-eyed 
girl,  who,  two  or  three  years  ago,  used  to  come 
here  with  eggs,  until  we  heard  bad  stories  of  her 
family,  and  desired  her  not  to  come  any  more. 
She  was,  however,  grown  so  much,  and  her  round 
laughing  face  looked  so  different  in  sorrow,  that 
I  found  some  difficulty  in  persuading  myself  she 
could  be  the  same. 

"  This  slight  pause  gave  her  some  courage, 


214  THE    STOLEN   PIECE    OF    LINEN. 

and  putting  aside  her  hair  with  her  s,iill  shakin-^ 
hands,  she  hurriedly  went  on  to  say,  that  she  had 
been  for  some  time  engaged  to  Brian,  our  under- 
gardener,  '  as  good  a  boy  as  ever  lived ;'  that 
he  had  had  misgivings  on  account  of  her  family ; 
'  but,  ma'am,'  continued  Nora,  with  a  deeper 
flush,  '  he  found  I  was  not  like  them,  and  at  last 
ever}'^thing  was  settled  between  us  for  our  mar- 
riag-e :  1  worked  early  and  late  to  oret  too:ether  a 
little  money  to  buy  myself  some  dacent  coverin, 
not  to  disgrace  him  when  he'd  carry  me  home, 
for  little  I  had  to  expect  from  father  or  mother ; 
so  when  I  had  just  enough,  mother  was  going  to 
town  one  day,  and  she  offered  to  lay  it  out  for 
me,  and  buy  whatever  I  'd  want :  I  would  rather 
have  done  it  myself,  but  I  did  n't  like  to  cross 
her ;  and  besides,  Brian  promised  to  be  over  in 
the  course  of  the  evening  to  settle  about  the 
day,  and  I  did  n't  wish  to  be  out  before  him,  so 
she  went  away.  I  'm  tiring  yer  honor  ;  but, 
oh !  if  you  could  only  know  the  shame  and  sor- 
row I  have  yet  to  tell,  you  would  not  wonder  that 
my  heart  was  dry,  and  my  story  slow.  Brian 
came,  but  not  with  the  bright,  contented  look  he 
always  gave  me ;  his  eyes  were  cast  down  as  if 
he  was  afraid  to  look  me  in  the  face.  I  thought 
not  of  myself,  for  my  mind  was  clear,  but  my 
heart  misgave  me  that  he  had  come  to  harm,  and 
for  his  sake  I  was  afraid  to  ask ;  })efore  I  could 


THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN.  215 

speak  he   turned  on  me   very  sharp  lilie,  and 
asked  which  was  it,  my  father  or  my  mother  did 
the   mischief  at  the  great   house  ?     I  kne'v  at 
once  what  he  meant,  and  his  voice  and  look,  oh ! 
so  strange,  went  through  me  Uke  a  dagger,  and  1 
burst  into  fits  of  crying;  he  thought  them  tears 
of  guilt,  and  flinging  himself  on  his  bended  knees, 
thanked  God  that  he  had  no  part  in  me,  and 
that  his  eyes  were  opened  before  it  was  too  late 
to  part  from  me  forever.      After  this  he  grew 
calmer  as  he  stood  up,  and  looked  at  me,  sorrow- 
ful like,  and  my  heart  that  had  been  fluttering 
with  fright,  grew  cold  and  still ;   we  stopped  a 
minute  or  so,  looking  at  one  another.     Well  we 
might,  when  'twas   the  last,  the  last  time  our 
eyes  would  ever  meet ;  and  then  without  a  word 
he  turned  away,  and  left  the  house  :  he  was  gone 
before  I  could  speak ;   gone  without  listening  to 
me,  who  never  told  him  the  untrue  word ;  but  my 
tongue  was  chained;   my  spirit  failed  me,  and 
when  I  got  up  to  follow  him  I  fell  upon  the  floor. 
"  '  When  1  sat  up  again  it  was  growing  dusk, 
and  I  tried  to  remember  everything,  though  I  felt 
very  wild,  but  my  foremost  thought  was  to  get 
back  the  linen.     I  knew  he  must  have  reason 
for  what  he  said,  and  shame  and  sorrow  was 
enough  to  bear  without  adding  sin.     I  searched 
every  bit  of  the  house,  though  I  dreaded  that  my 
mother  had  taken  it  to  town ;  but  at  last  I  noticed 


216  THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF   LINEN. 

the  big  chest  shoved  out  from  the  wal],  and  Iook 
ing  underneath,  I  found  the  piece  was  lying 
there.  To  my  joy  I  found  it ;  to  my  joy,  though 
my  heart  was  breaking:  but  from  the  time  be 
said  it,  no  doubt,  no  hope  that  he  might  be  wrong- 
ing us,  entered  my  heart,  and  I  had  at  least  the 
joy  of  making  up  to  yer  honor  for  the  harm  that 
was  done ;  I  moved  the  chest  as  well  as  I  was 
able,  took  out  the  linen  and  hid  it  in  the  turf-rick. 
When  mother  came  home  she  missed  it,  and  beat 
me ;  but  I  would  tell  her  nothing,  and  all  the 
day  I  'm  watching  to  tell  yer  honor  that  if  you 
send  in  the  morning  ye  '11  find  it  here  behind  the 
well.  But,  oh  !  mistress,'  she  continued,  agam 
\  falling  on  her  knees,  '  spare  our  name,  spare  us, 

bad  as  we  are ;  don't  sink  us  intirely,  and  give  it 
to  the  neighbors  to  say,  that  even  the  best  and 
kmdest  could  not  escape  from  such  as  we.' 

"  Such,  as  well  as  I  can  remember,  was  poor 
Nora's  story,  but  it  would  be  impossible  for  me 
to  describe  her  heart-broken  look,  her  lowly  self- 
abasement  of  tone  and  attitude  as  she  poured  out 
her  confession  ;  no  doubt  of  Brian's  keeping  her 
secret  faithfully  seemed  to  have  crossed  her 
mind,  but  at  the  same  time  no  ray  of  hope  that 
he  may  relent  had  entered  to  cheer  her.  I  as- 
sured her  of  my  own  fidelity,  and  tried  to  speak  of 
comfort,  but  she  turned  away  with  a  gesture  that 
showed  such  words  were  vain  •   she  would  nei 


THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN.  217 

ther  accept  nor  hear  of  any  reward;  and  I  in- 
wardly resolved  to  use  every  effort  to  procure 
her  heart's  dearest  recompense  —  a  reconciliation 
with  Brian  again,  and  pondering  on  all  this,  you 
will  not  wonder  that  in  my  sleep  that  night  the 
whole  scene  was  reacted,  and  that  I  really  did 
dream  the  piece  was  found. 

"  After  its  discovery  I  imagined  my  task  with 
Brian  would  have  been  a  light  one ;  but  I  little 
knew  his  sturdy,  resolute  nature ;  his  feelings 
had  been  sorely  wrung,  his  hopes  crushed,  and  he 
found  it  next  to  impossible  to  heal  or  renew  them. 
[  believe  he  was  apprehensive  of  my  interference, 
or  else  felt  ashamed  of  having  had  any  connec- 
tion with  the  traitors;  at  least  he  most  studi- 
ously avoided  me,  and  so  much  time  at  length 
elapsed  before  I  could  bring  about  an  apparently 
accidental  interview,  that  any  one  less  interested 
or  determined  than  myself  would  have  forgotten 
the  matter  altogether. 

"  At  last  I  successfully  waylaid  him  as  he  was 
cutting  the  grass  in  the  flov/er-garden,  and  find- 
ing himself  circumvented,  he  evidently  prepared 
to  submit  to  a  lecture  of  one  sort  or  another.  As 
I  approached,  he  commenced  sharpening  his 
scythe  most  industriously,  while  his  downcast 
look  and  heightened  color  plainly  showed  his  an- 
ticipation of  something  personally  interesting.  1 
really  cannot  help  laughing  now  at  the  recoUec- 
19 


218  THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN. 

tion  of  my  own  nervousness,  and  I  believe  I  was 
almost  as  much  confused  as  poor  Brian;  fortu- 
nately, however,  he  was  too  much  occupied  with 
his  own  dilemma  to  notice  mine. 

"  I  commenced  by  saying  I  had  wished  for 
an  opportunity  to  speak  to  and  thank  him  for 
the  part  he  had  borne  in  getting  my  piece  re- 
stored :  he  at  once  deprecated  any  praise,  in  a 
hurried  tone  which  plainly  said,  '  No  more  about 
it;'  but  I  was  not  to  be  thus  baffled,  and  went  on 
to  speak  of  Nora,  her  distress  of  mind,  her  sor- 
row, her  excellence,  growing  more  and  more 
eloquent  as  I  perceived  the  impression  I  was 
making:,  until  at  last  the  honest  face  was  turned 
away,  and  the  rough  hand  hastily  raised  to  wipe 
away  the  tear  he  would  not  show.  But  though 
his  heart  was  touched,  his  mind  was  firm,  and, 
throwing  away  the  scythe,  he  thanked  me 
warmly  in  a  burst  of  natural  eloquence  for  all 
the  pains  that  I  had  taken,  the  interest  I  had  felt. 
'  'T  was  too  much  to  ask  me  to  forgive  them,  let 
alone  to  speak  in  their  favor.  But  he  and  his 
family  were  always  honest  people  ;  thank  God 
ihey  escaped,  though  only  a  hair's  breadth, 
making  one  with  them  born  thieves.  Oh, 
mistress ! '  continued  he,  '  my  heart  sunk  with- 
in me  when  I  thought  I  read  the  guilt  in  her 
face,  and  never  since  has  it  risen,  nor  ever  will 
again.' 


THE    STOLEN   PIECE    OF    LINEN.  219 

" '  Ah ,  Brian,'  I  exclaimed, '  we  '11  see  you  with. 
a  light  heart  yet,  when  all  is  forgotten  and  for- 
given.' Brian  shook  his  head  ;  but  remember- 
ing the  proverb,  '  silence  gives  consent,'  I  still 
persevered,  and  at  last  got  a  promise  that  he 
would  take  a  fortnight  to  consider,  and  then 
acquaint  me  with  his  determination. 

"  All  this  time  I  kept  my  eyes  on  Nora,  watch- 
ing how  she  bore  her  disappointment,  and  now 
guessing  pretty  nearly  how  it  would  end,  I 
hardly  regretted  the  severe  lesson  she  was  re- 
ceiving as  a  counterpoise  to  the  evil  example 
she  had  witnessed  from  childhood ;  still  as  I  occa- 
sionally met  her  in  my  walks,  and  saw  her  meek 
pale  face  flush,  and  light  up  with  a  grateful 
smile  as  I  passed,  I  could  scarcely  refrain  from 
whispering  some  word  of  comfort  to  that  stricken 

heart. 

"  The  second  week  passed  by,  and  one  glance 
at  Brian  showed  me  how  our  ensuisg  confer- 
ence would  end.  Never  did  m.an  look  more 
conscious  or  ashamed,  and  it  needed  no  words 
to  tell  that  all  his  stern  resolutions  were  con- 
quered. But  he  had  decided  not  only  kindly  but 
wisely;  whatever  turned  out,  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  dwell  in  this  country  no  more. 
Without  Nora  he  would  be  miserable  ;  and  with 
her,  even  if  she  forgave  all  his  harshness  and 
consented  to  marry  him,  (this  was  the  way  now,) 


220  THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN. 

Still  he  could  not  be  happy  while  she  v/as  near 
her  people,  for  he  knew  too  well,  by  what  was 
come  and  gone,  that  his  heart  was  of  a  suspi- 
cious nature  that  could  never  rest  content  as  long 
as  there  was  any  fear  of  their  coming  round 
her;  but  if  Nora  could  make  up  her  mind  to 
leave  them  all,  and  come  with  him  to  America 

then  .     He  said  no   more,  but  his   sunny 

countenance  showed  that  that  prospect  shone 
without  a  cloud. 

"  I  was  to  be  his  mediator  with  Nora,  as  he 
wished  to  avoid  the  trial  of  parting,  or  perhaps 
mistrusted  the  strength  of  his  resolution  in  case 
she  rejected  his  terms,  or  thought  them  too  severe. 
I  am  sure  he  thought  them  so  himself,  though 
impelled  by  the  necessity  of  the  case  ;  but  he  little 
knew  poor  Nora's  heart — never,  never  shall  I 
forget  the  bewildered,  incredulous  look  when  she 
first  heard  me ;  me  transition  from  despair  to 
dcubt,  then  on  to  hope  and  joy,  and  then  the  pas- 
sionate thanksgiving  which  she  poured  forth,- — I 
almost  feared  she  would  have  fallen  down  and 
worshipped  me. 

"  It  is  needless  now  to  tell  what  were  the  con- 
tents of  the  basket  or  why  provided  —  enough  to 
say,  that  yesterday  the  long  estranged  pair  were 
united,  and  are  by  this  time  on  their  way  to  their 
new  country,  and  I  trust  their  happy  home." 

"Then   come,"   said   Mr.   Carr,  refilling   his 


THE    STOLEN    PIECE    OF    LINEN.  22\ 

wine-glass,  "  let  us  all  drink  success  to  you, 
Mary,  as  a  match  maker,  and  a  peaceful  voyage, 
not  only  across  the  Atlantic,  but  through  the 
ocean  of  life,  to  the  honest  gardener  and  his 
pretty  bride." 

19=^ 


SERENADE. 

BY    C.    F.    HOUSEMAN. 

The  brook  is  purling  on  its  way, 

Amid  a  thousand  flowers  ; 
It  seems  not  night,  but  paler  day, 

So  clear  the  moonlight  hours : 
And  many  a  light  step  treads  the  greesa, 

And  music  now  begins  — 
The  tinkling  of  the  light  guitar. 

The  sound  of  mandolins. 

Come  forth,  my  love,  and  I  will  weave 

A  garland  for  thy  brow ; 
The  brightest  roses  kissed  by  eve, 

Are  shining  brighter  now  ! 
The  moonlight  loses  half  its  charms, 

However  bright,  for  me, 
If  tis  not  shared  with  thee,  my  love-« 

If  'tis  nO'.  shared  with  thee  ! 


223 


THE  CHANGE. 

ANONT.'aOUS. 

Unclouded  shone  Hope's  brilliant  beam, 

With  bright  celestial  ray ; 
And  like  a  lovely  fairy  dream 

My  young  hours  flew  away. 

Ah  yes !  they  flew— those  happy  hours  ! 

Bright  blossoms  quickly  fade  : 
And  the  sweet  dreams  in  childhood  ours, 

Are  all  too  soon  decayed. 

They  cannot  last !  but  memory, 

To  tell  of  pleasures  fled, 
Still  lives — would  memory  too  could  die 

Or,  oh !  that  I  were  dead ! 

For  now,  that  Hope's  last  ray  is  gone, 
Sure  Lethe's  dream  would  bless  ; 

In  grief  to  think  bliss  that  is  flown 
Adds  pangs  to  wretchedness 


224 


THE  STATION:   AN  IRISH  SKETCH. 

BY    T.     KEIOHTLEY,     ESQ. 

There  is,  at  least  there  was  in  my  younger 
days,  in  the  county  of  Kildare,  in  Ireland,  an  old 
castle  called  Blacldiall,  one  of  those  parallelo- 
grammatical  strong  holds  so  numerous  in  that  at 
all  times  unsettled  country.  Blackhall  has  been 
for  many  years  unroofed  and  unwindowed,  and 
its  only  tenants  are  pigeons  and  jackdaws,  and  of 
course  span'ows ;  but,  at  right  angles  with  it, 
runs  a  long  low  farm-house,  and  behind  both  is 
a  large  haggard,  fenced  in  by  a  hedge,  and 
flowed  round  by  a  stream.  The  castle  and  its 
appendages  stand  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the 
road  as  you  go  to  the  mountains,  and  opposite  to 
it,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  are  some  high 
banks  of  sand,  covered  with  a  thin  turf,  plentif  illy 
peopled  by  numerous  colonies  of  rabbits. 

The  farm-house  was  the  abode  of  as  uncouth 
a  set  of  mortals  as  ever  Ireland  produced.  They 
were  a  family  of  the  name  of  Beaghan,  consist- 
ing of  four  brothers,  Morris,  Hugh,  Jack,  and 
Simon,  and  an  only  sister  named  Polsh.  They 
held  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  the 
lands  of  Blackhall,  which  they  farmed  after  most 


Trt=0[E  DiBOSK]  m®T\K} 


c    c    c 
t      •    o 


THE    STATION.  22-5 

barbarous  fashion,  getting  about  one  third  of  the 
produce  which  the  lands  would  yield  under  any 
decent  system  of  culture.  Some  years,  however, 
before  the  time  I  am  about  to  speak  of,  Simon 
had  left  the  society,  and,  after  the  manner  of 
other  men,  (Irishmen  I  mean,)  had  taken  unto 
himself  a  wife  :  and  let  Malthus  and  Bentham 
say  what  they  will,  it  is  astonishing  what  a  dif- 
ference marriage  will  sometimes  make  in  a  man, 
and  that  for  the  better,  too  ;  for  when  I  knew  the 
Beaghans,  neither  Morris,  nor  Hugh,  nor  Jack, 
w^as  fit  to  tie  the  thongs  of  Simon's  pumps,  and 
yet  originally,  I  am  told,  he  had  not  been  a  whit 
better  than  the  rest  of  them.  As  to  Polsh,  gentle 
reader,  the  following  story  will  give  you  some 
insight  into  her  character. 

I  have  been  thus  mil  ute  in  describing  the 
Beaghans,  and  their  residence  ;  for  when,  in  ray 
thirteenth  year,  I  first  began  to  carry  a  gun, 
Blackball  was  the  scene  of  my  shooting  exploits, 
and  many  a  tough  combat  used  I  to  have  with 
Morris,  or  one  of  his  brothers,  about  shooting  the 
pigeons  or  the  rabbits.  My  plan  was  to  make 
my  foot-page,  Johnny  S tykes,  steal  into  the  old 
castle,  and  pelt  out  the"  pigeons.  Johnny,  then, 
would  throw^  and  shout,  the  pigeons  would  rise  in 
a  cloud,  I  would  let  fly,  out  Polsh  would  run  to 
the  barn,  or  haggard,  to  give  the  alarm.  Mean- 
time I  had  reloaded,  and  got  my  follower  armed 


226  THE    STATION. 

with  stones  behind  me.  One  of  the  broi^.i'.'ia 
would  soon  make  his  appearance,  and  iell  me 
how  the  agent  (the  great  man  on  an  Irish  es'ate^ 
had  desired  them  to  ]et  no  onesiiooton  the  lands. 
I  would  reph^  that  I  did  not  care  for  him,  or  the 
agent.  Then  Morris  would  threaten  my  father 
on  me.  I  would  threaten  to  shoot  Morris ;  and 
so  we  would  battle  it  away  for  half  an  hour.  It 
is  a  strange  perversity  in  human  nature,  but  I 
preferred  shooting  one  pigeon  or  rabbit  at  Black- 
hall,  to  a  bagful  elsewhere.  It  is  odd,  too,  that 
though  the  last-named  quadrupeds  destroyed  at 
least  an  acre  of  corn  every  year,  the  ctmrls  were 
as  precious  of  them  as  they 'were  of  the  nigeons, 
that  were  really  profitable  to  them.  Nay,  I 
could  not  even  take  a  shot  at  the  sparrows  in  the 
haggard-hedge,  without  a  conflict  with  these  dogs 
in  the  manger.  But  it  was  a  great  triumph  to 
me  when  I  was  out  shooting  with  my  father,  for 
thev  were  all  civility  to  him,  and  then  I  would 
slap  away  at  pigeons,  or  sparrows,  or  what  I 
pleased,  before  their  faces.  But  I  feel  I  am 
digressing  from  my  tale,  though,  in  truth,  I  have 
but  little  tale  to  tell. 

The  priest  of  the  parish  was  father  Miley.     I 
knew  him  well,  and  very  fond  he  was  of  me,  for 
I  loved  hunting  in  my  heart,   and  so  did  the 
priest;  and  I,  moreover,  (as  a  country  school 
master  would  express  it,)  took  very  kindly  to  my 


THE    STATION. 


227 


taming,  and  he  would  walk  or  ride  through  the 
country  with  me  for  the  length  of  a  day,  and 
come  to  dine  at  my  father's,  and  have  me  to  dine 
with  him  in  return  (a  piece  of  attention,  by  the 
way,  I  never  experienced  from  our  own  rector, 
who,  provided  my  father  paid  his  tythes  regularly, 
gave  us  little  trouble  on  the  score  of  religion ; 
neither  did  the  curate,  to  whom  I  had  not  even 
the  honor  of  being  known,)  and,  for  all  that,  the 
idea  of  converting  me  never  entered  the   good 
priest's  head.     I  fancy,  somehow  or  other,  that 
it  was  my  knowledge  of  him,  and  some  others 
like  him,  that  has  made  me  such  an  infidel  as  I 
am,  on   the    subject  of  the    horrid  villany   and 
hypocrisy  of  priests.     Yet,  as  wase  men  say,  all 
things  grow  worse  with  time,  and  priests  are  not 
exempted  from  the  common  lot ;  I  greatly  fear 
they  are  not  now  exactly  what  they  were.    How- 
ever,  this   again  is   all  palpable  digression,  for 
what  have  I  to  do  but  to  tell  the  story  of  Polsh 
Beaghan,  and  her  brothers  ? 

Well,  then,  reader,  I  suppose  you  know  what 
a  Station  is ;  if  you  do  not,  as  old  Herodotus 
would  say,  I  will  tell  you.  A  station,  then,  is 
when,  at  certain  seasons,  the  parish  priest  intends 
to  hear  confessions,  and,  for  the  convenience  of 
the  people,  he  makes  a  sort  of  progress  through 
his  parish  — attending  now  at  the  house  of  one,. 
now  of  another,  decent  farmer,  where  the  morn 


228  THE    STATION. 

ing  is  devoted  to  spiritual  exercises,  and  the 
evening  to  festivity,  at  which,  it  is  not  to  be 
denied,  the  priest  occasionally  takes  a  drop  too 
much ;  for,  as  a  friend  of  mine  once  said,  in  ex- 
cuse of  the  inebriety  of  priests,  what  other  comfort 
have  the  poor  men  ?  This  is  called  holding  a 
station,  and  the  s4;ation  is  ahvays  given  out  from 
the  altar  on  the  preceding  Sunday,  that  the 
people  may  know  where  to  go,  and  the  favored 
host  have  time  to  lay  in  his  stock  of  meat  and 
drink. 

Year  after  year  the  stations  were  held  at  Tom 
Dannelly's,  Jack  Keogh's,  Cormac  Maley's,  Simon 
Beaghan's,  &c.,  &c.,  high  and  low-  but  no  one 
ever  heard  the  name  of  Morris  Beaghan  sound 
from  the  altar,  except  in  the  way  of  reprimand 
for  being  behindhand  with  his  dues.  The  true 
reason,  I  believe  —  indeed,  I  may  say,  I  know  it, 
for  he  told  it  to  me  himself — was,  that  the  deli- 
cate priest  fought  rather  shy  oi  tne  Blackball 
pigsty.  At  last,  either  thinking  that  he  was  not 
acting  with  perfect  justice  towards  such  respec- 
table parishioners,  or — or — or  —  I  might,  like 
Dr.  Johnson,  and  other  great  writers,  go  on 
assigning  tw^enty  ingenious  reasons  ;  but  the 
simplest  way,  I  believe,  is  to  give  the  one  the 
man  himself  gave,  for  he  told  me,  it  was  to  punish 
the  negers,  and  break  their  hearts  at  being  forced 
to  buy  some   fresh  meat  and  whisky.     At  any 


["HE    STATION. 


229 


tate,  to  the  amazement  of  all  present,  the  station 
was    given  out  for  the    following  Thursday  at 

Blackhall. 

Polsh,  though  but  an  unfrequent  worshipper, 
was  at   mass  that  day,  and  it   is   hard  to  say 
whether  she  felt  more  joy  or  sorrow  at  the  sounds. 
Her  pride  or  her  vanity  — for  remember  Polsh 
was  a  woman -^  was  flattered  at  the  idea  of  the 
priest   coming    under   her    roof  to   be   feasted. 
"  And  I'll  give  him,"  says  Polsh,  "  a  real  raking 
pot  of  tay,  such  as  he  never  saw  the  Hke  of.— 
But,  thwider  aiid  ounds,''  cried  she,  again,  as  she 
went  along,  "  then  we  must  have  a  big  dinner, 
and  we  must  ax  people  to  meet  the  priest ;  and 
there 's  that  big  baste,  long  Paddy  Gallagher,  we 
can't  with  any  decency,  get  over  axing  him,  and 
he'll  eat  as  much  as  any  tin  when  he  gets  the 
victuals  for  nothing,  and  give  a  body  no  thanks 
for  it  neither  ;  and  then  they'll  be  all  for  getting 
drunk  any  how,  bad  luck  to  them  !     Och !  sure 
but  it  will  be  the  ruin  of  us  all  entirely  to  slash 
away  such  a  load  of  money  upon  them.     But  any 
how  I'll  give  the  priest  the  tay.'' 

When  Polsh  got  home,  and  informed  her  bro- 
thers of  the  honor  they  were  to  have,  their 
countenances  fell ;  but  as  the  thing  must  be  done, 
they  resolved  to  do  it  dacently,  as  they  called  it. 
'*  So,  boys,"  says  Morris,  "  we'll  clean  away  the 
dung  from  afore  the  door,  and  make  a  passage 
20 


230  THE    STATION. 

for  the  priest  to  ride  up  to  the  house ;  and  Niddy, 
agrah,  (to  a  little  boy,)  you'll  be  sure,  on  Thurs^ 
day  morning,  to  shut  the  pigs  up  fast  in  the  ould 
castle,  that  they  may  not  be  coming  in  on  the 
Jlure  among  us  while  we're  eating  ;  and,  dhudh^ 
you  '11  try  if  you  can  get  up,  without  breaking 
your  neck,  to  the  holes  in  the  w^lls,  where  the 
young  pigeons  are;  'tis  they,  sure,  will  be  the 
sweet  tinder  eatinof  for  his  reverence." 

"  But  won't  we  have  something  else?"  says 
Polsh. 

"  Why,  then,  to  be  sure,  we  will,"  says  Hugh. 
"  Do  you  think  we  're  such  omedkauns  as  to  go 
feed  them  all  on  young  pigeons  ?  But,  anyhow, 
boys,  we  must  not  feed  them  too  well,  o^,  may 
be,  the  priest  would  be  for  coming  every  year." 

After  a  good  deal  of  debate  it  was  agreed  to 
send  over  in  the  morning  for  Simon,  who  was 
used  to  these  things,  and  get  his  advice  about 
arranging  the  dmner;  and  then  Polsh  brought 
forward  her  motion  respecting  the  tea,  showing 
why  it  was  expedient,  for  the  honor  of  herself  as 
mistress  of  the  house,  to  give  the  priest  a  good 
pot  of  tea.  She  hardly  had  uttered  the  fatal 
word  tay,  when  Jack,  the  greatest  neger  of  the 
set,  Avho  had  been  sitting  silent  and  thoughtful, 
nodding  over  the  fire,  cried  out  in  a  rage,  "  Tay 

you !"  and  threw  himself  back  in  his  stool 

to  battle  it  with  Polsh  ;  but  with  the  sudden  viw 


THE    STATION.  23} 

lence  of  the  motion,  as  the  stool,  like  Andrevj 
Fairservice's  sprightly  nag,  had  one  leg  suspended 
in  the  air,  the  off  hind-leg  went  down  into  one  of 
the  holes  in  the  floor,  out  of  which  the  duck? 
used  to  drink,  and  poor  Jack  came  sprawling. 
His  left  foot  upset  the  pot  of  potatoes  that  was  on 
the  fire  over  the  cat  and  the  dog,  who  were  lying 
asleep  together  quite  cozily,  dreaming  of  no  such 
evil;  his  head  came  a-top  of  one  of  a  litter  of  young 
pigs  that  happened  at  that  moment  to  be  fora- 
ging about :  week  !  week  I  week  I  week  I  week ! 
cried  little  piggy.  Hongh!  honghl  grunted  the 
old  sow ;  and  helter-skelter,  over  the  prostrate 
carcase  of  poor  Jack,  went  the  mother  and  four- 
teen young  ones  in  their  way  to  the  door. 

This  accident  put  an  end  to  the  dispute ;  but 
Polsh  secretly  resolved  to  have  the  tea.  So  that 
evening  she  held  a  talk  with  Madge  Murrin,  who 
was  agent  and  carrier-general  to  all  the  good 
women  of  the  neighborhood,  and  could  turn  the 
potatoes,  oatmeal  and  corn,  they  cribbed  from 
their  husbands,  into  tea  and  sugar  for  them,  with 
all  due  despatch  and  secrecy. 

Accordingly  next  morning,  by  the  time  the 
brothers  were  gone  to  their  work,  Madge  came 
to  the  castle,  and  Polsh  led  her  out  to  the  baruj 
where  there  was  a  heap  of  winnowed  wheat 
lying  on  the  floor.  The  sacks,  unfortunately. 
^'ere  all  from  home.     Polsh  did  not  know  what 


232  THE    STATION. 

to  do ;  an  apron,  or  a  praskeen,^  would  not  hold 
enough.  At  last  she  thought  of  her  other  under- 
p^arment ;  she  fetched  it  out,  stitched  up  the  neck 
and  ends  of  the  sleeves,  filled  it  with  the  wheat 
and  placed  it  upon  Madge's  back,  who  drew  the 
tail  of  her  gown  up  over  it,  and  trudged  off  to  the 
market  of  Naas. 

Madge  was  not  long  about  disposing  of  her 
cargo  of  wheat.  A  baker  bought  it,  and,  being 
in  a  hurr}",  he  put  it  sitting  on  a  chair  in  his 
parlor,  which  it  occupied  in  great  state,  with  its 
two  thick  little  arms  stretched  out  at  full  length. 
Just  then  the  baker's  wife  happened  to  come  into 
the  room,  and  as  the  room  was  rather  dark,  and 
the  wheat-5acA-  was  behind  the  door,  she  did  not 
perceive  it  at  first ;  but  when  at  last  it  caught  her 
eye,  she  deemed  it  some  supernatural  monster, 
gave  a  yell  of  affright,  shrieked  for  help,  and 
concluded  by  falling  in  a  dead  faint  down  on  the 
floor,  where  the  men  found  her  when  they  ran 
in  from  the  shop  and  bakehouse.  Meanwhile 
Mudge  had  complel3d  her  purchases,  and  in  the 
evening  she  delivered  them  safe  into  the  hands 
of  Polsh  Beaghan. 

That  same  eveninsf  Simon  and  his  wife  came 
over  to  the  castle.  They  did  not  require  to  be 
informed  of  what  was  to  take  place,  for  the  news 
had  run  like  wildfire  through  the  parish.     These 

*  A  very  coarse  kind  of  apron. 


THE    STATION.  235 

experienced  personages  were  not  long  about  ar- 
ranging the  dinner ;  and,  to  do  the  Blackhall  people 
justice,  they  gave  them,  carte  blanche.  Among 
other  things  Simon  said  a  corned  round  of  beef 
was  absolutely  necessary.  Now  as  you  cannot 
in  Ireland  get  meat  ready  salted  as  you  can  here^ 
you  may  wonder,  perhaps,  where  the  corned 
beef  was  to  come  from.  So  I  will  give  you  a 
receipt  that  I  fancy  you  will  not  find  in  Mrs 
Glasse,  or  Dr.  Kitchener  either,  which  it  is  not 
unlikely  you  may  think  worth  knowing,  and 
thank  me  for.  Salt  and  water  you  know,  of 
course,  have  a  wonderful  penchant,  chemically 
ycleped  affinity,  for  each  other.  Get,  therefore, 
a  tub  of  pure  water,  rain  or  river  water  is  best, 
let  it  be  nearly  full,  and  put  the  tongs,  or  two 
pieces  of  thin  wood  across  it,  and  set  your  beef 
on  them  distant  about  an  inch  from  the  water; 
heap  as  much  salt  as  it  will  hold  on  your  beef, 
let  it  stand  for  four  and  twenty  hours,  you  may 
then  take  it  off  and  boil  it,  and  you  will  find  it  as 
salt  as  if  it  had  been  in  pickle  for  six  weeks. 

When  the  dinner  was  agreed  on,  Polsh  took 
her  sister-in-law  into  the  room  to  consult  her 
about  the  tea;  and  Mrs.  Beaghan  gave  her 
opinion,  that  it  would  be  quite  disgraceful  to  send 
the  priest  away  without  his  tea,  and  promised  to 
smuggle  over  the  equipage  (for  poor  Polsh  had 
none)  unknowTi  to  Jack  the  neger. 
20^ 


204  THE    STATION. 

Thursday  morning  at  length  came.  The  beef 
was  bought  and  corned,  and  Neddy  had  got  the 
young  pigeons  without  damaging  his  cervical 
vertebrjE.  And  now,  had  I  the  style  and  ihe 
imasiination  of  the  author  of  "  Liirhts  and 
Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,"  how  might  I  not  de- 
scribe the  beauties  of  morning,  and  the  majesty  of 
mountains,  and  the  fragrance  of  meadows,  and 
the  magic  of  light,  and  the  charms  and  the  inno- 
cence of  the  peasant  girls,  and  the  primitive  piety 
of  the  priest,  and  idealize  Polsh  and  her  brethren  : 
and  lay  the  realms  of  ideas  and  of  association 
under  contribution,  to  contrast  the  former  state  of 
the  castle,  in  troubled  times,  when  peopled  with 
warriors,  with  its  present  pacific  task — of  keep- 
ing the  pigs  which  the  faithful  Neddy  had 
enclosed  within  its  massive  walls  !  But  alas  !  I 
am  not  gifted  with  imagination  ;  I  cannot  pour 
the  light  of  poetry  over  Blackball,  its  tenants,  and 
its  guests,  I  can  only  narrate  things  just  as  they 
were  —  in  all  their  nakedness  and  rudeness. 

Thursday  morning  came ;  and  a  more  fully 
attended  station  never  was  yet,  for  every  one  was 
curious  to  see  how  things  were  managed  at 
Blackball.  It  was  quite  a  holiday,  I  remember, 
at  my  father's,  for  every  one  of  the  men  was  oft' 
to  his  duty,  with  his  shilling  in  his  pocket.  It 
was  a  busy  but  a  profitable  day  with  the  good 
priest.     Confessions   of  all  lengths,  and  of  all 


THE    STATION. 


235 


degrees,   were   made,   and   penances   of    every 
variety  imposed.     Little  boys  acknowledged  the 
theft  of  apples  and  eggs;  maid-servants  that  of 
tea  and  sugar  ;  charges  of  cursing  and  swearing 
were  pretty  generally  pleaded  guilty  to ;    some 
made  short  work  of  the  business,  by  saying  they 
had  committed  every  sin  but  murder  ;  servants  in 
Protestant  families  confessed  having  given  way 
to  the   sin  that  so  easily  besets  them  in  such 
places,  and   to  have    eaten   meat   on   fast-days. 
Among  the  last   class   of  offenders   was    Betty 
Whelan,  my  brother's  nurse  ;  and  she  was  sen- 
tenced to  go,  for  six  Sundays  running,  to  mass 
with  an  empty  stomach  ;  and  a  hard  penance  it 
was  upon  poor  Betty,  who  loved  her  breakfast 
dearly,  and  I  remember  well  how  she  used  to  groan 
when  the  fast-Sundays  came.     However,  when 
Betty  had  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  as  they  call 
it,  she  put  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  took  out  her 
silver  shilling,  and  handed  it  to  the  priest.    Now 
that  is  a  sort  of  simony,  it  seems.     "  How  dare 
you  offer  me  money  ? "  said  the  priest,  with  a 
frown,  pointing  all  the  while  to  the  table,  where 
the  better  informed  had  deposited  their  offerings ; 
but  Betty  was  too  simple  and  too  confused  to  take 
the  hint:    she   put  her   shilling    back  into  her 
pocket,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room.     The  priest 
was  ashamed  to  call  her  back  ;  he  lost  his  shil- 


236  THE    STATION. 

ling,  and  Betty  had  the  rare  good  fortune  to  be 
confessed  and  absolved  for  nothing. 

Some  say  confession  is  a  good  thing,  some  say 
it  is  a  bad  thing ;  for  my  part,  I  say  with  Sga- 
narelle,  "  que  oui  et  que  nonJ*^  But  this  I  know, 
that  the  general  belief  of  the  Irish  peasantry  is 
that  when  they  have  made  confession,  and  got 
absolution  from  the  priest,  they  are  as  free  from 
sin  as  the  newly  christened  babe,  or,  as  Tom 
Doyle,  one  of  our  workmen,  once  explained  it  to 
me; — "You  see,  Master  Thomas,"  said  Tom, 
'  it 's  just  like  when  a  gossoon,  like  yourself,  that 's 
going  to  school,  covers  his  slate  all  over  with 
figures  when  he 's  working  his  sum ;  and  then, 
when  the  master  looks  over  it,  he  spits  upon  it, 
and  takes  a  hould  of  the  cuff  of  his  coat,  and  rubs 
it  all  out,  and  then  there  's  a  slate  for  you  as  clean 
as  if  there  never  was  anything  on  it."  There 
are,  however,  plenty  of  people,  who  know  more 
about  such  things  than  either  Tom  Doyle  or  I,  to 
argue  for  and  against  confession.  I  have  other  fish 
to  fry,  and  I  must  hasten  away  to  the  kitchen. 

Simon's  wife  was  there  to  assist  Polsh;  and 
sc  too,  was  Molly  Mulreany,  who  had  lived  cook 
m  several  families,  and  who  boasted  that  she 
could  even  make  turtle  soup ;  and  the  dinner  was 
well  cooked  and  well  served  up.  At  these  station 
dinners  the  priest  usually  takes  the  head  of  the 
table ;  yet  I  have  known  farmers,  such  as  Tora 


THE    STATION. 


237 


Fagan,  for  instance,  who  would  not  give  up  the 
head  of  their  table  to  the  Bishop  himself;  but 
Morris   Beaghan   was  not  one  of  these.     The 
task  therefore,  of  carving,  or  rather  cutting  up  the 
beef,  fell  to  the  priest ;  and  little  to  be  envied  he 
was,  for,  if  I  recollect  right,  one  of  the  supreme 
«  Miseries  of  Human  Life  "  is  that  of  carving  a 
round  of  beef  with  a  short  blunt  knife,  every  one 
calling  on  you,  and  begging  you  to  cut  it  thin. 
The  latter  part  of  the  misery,  however,  the  priest 
escaped  ;  and  he  junked  it  up  gloriously.     Paddy 
Gallagher  was  there,  and,  as  you  may  suppose, 
he  verified  all  the  fears  of  Polsh ;  the  others  were 
no  mean  performers ;  but  there  is  no  necessity 
for  my  describing  the  dinner  minutely.     I  have 
already,  in   the    "Harvest   Dinner,"   which,   of 
course,  you  have  read,  in  that  pic-nic  called  the 
"  Irish  Fairy  Legends,"  described  how  the  Irish 
eat  and  drink ;  so,  "  I  pray  you,  have  me  excused." 
The  dinner  was  over,  and  the  jug  of  punch 
was  just   laid   upon   the   table   skreeching  hot. 
Neddy  had  set  a  basketful  of  the  potato-skins  out 
on  the  dunghill,  intending  to  throw  them  to  the 
pigs  when  he  had  time.     They  caught  the  nose 
and  the  eye  of  the  captives  in  the  "  donjon-tower," 
who  grunted  their  complaints  through  the  bara 
of  the  hatch  that  confined  them,  unheeded  by  the 
unfeeling   Neddy.      At   last   porcine    flesh   and 
blood  could  stand  it  no  longer ;  the  big  black 


238  THE    STATION. 

boar  made  a  run  at  the  hatch,  and  tumbled  it 
down.  Forth  rushed  boar,  and  sow,  and  slip^ 
and  sucking  pig.  The  contents  of  the  basket 
soon  disappeared,  and  then,  just  as  Morris  had 
predicted,  they  came  full  charge  in  about  the 
flure;  one  ran  here,  another  ran  there  ;  one  was 
kicked,  another  was  thumped.  "  Put  them  out, 
you  devil's-limb,  you,"  cried  the  priest  to  Neddy. 
— "  Hurrish  !  hurrish  !  hurrishamuc  ! "  shouted 
Neddy,  flinging  a  parcel  of  skins  out  before  the 
door.  At  the  well-known  signal,  the  whole  troop 
scampered  away  for  the  door,  and  one  impatient 
devil  took  the  straight  road  under  the  tables. 
One  of  these  happening  to  hav^  cross-barp  under 
it,  he  got  entangled  in  them,  and  capsized  .  t.  As 
ill-luck  would  have  it,  this  was  the  table  the  jug 
of  punch  was  on,  which  was  clean  upset  into  the 
lap  of  Darby  Doran,  upon  his  bran  new  corduroy 
breeches,  to  the  no  small  consternation  of  the 
good  woman  that  owned  him.  Up  sprang  Darby, 
swearing  he  was  destroyed,  and  jumped  about 
the  floor,  holding  the  corduroy  out  from  his  skin. 
The  fall  of  the  canopy  at  the  banquet  of  Nasi- 
dienus,  or  the  similar  event  at  Guildhall,  was 
nothing  to  the  fall  of  the  punch-jug. 

At  last  Darby's  inexpressibles  cooled,  the  pigs 
were  once  more  shut  up,  the  tables  set  to  rights 
and  the  evening  was  passing  away  pleasantly 
ana   happily.     The   priest   had   got   about  hins 


THE    STATION.  2,S9 

Simon  and  Morris  Beaghan ;  Morris  Connor, 
who  lived  in  the  big  house  of  Punchestown 
where  the  ould  Lord  Allen  (of  whom  I  could  teL 
many  a  queer  story)  used  to.  live,  sic  transit 
gloria  mundi  !  Darby  Doran,  and  a  few  others. 
And  they  were  chatting  comfortably  of  this  and 
of  that,  of  the  war,  of  the  price  of  wheat  and 
butter,  of  the  new  road  that  was  to  be  cut  through 
Darby's  ground,  of  the  race  at  the  Curragh  be- 
tween the  Fandreen  mare  and  Black-and-all- 
Black,  and  of  various  other  important  matters, — 
when  Neddy  came  behind  the  priest,  and  jogged 
his  shoulder.  "What  is  it  amcV  said  the 
priest.—"  Sir,"  says  Neddy,  with  his  best  bow, 
"  Polsh  bid  me  ca:  you  if  your  reverence  would 
not  be  pleased  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  afore  you  go  ?  " 
No  language  could  depict  the  amazement  and 
vexation  that  appeared  in  the  countenance  of 
Jack  Beaghan,  whose  heart  even  whisky-punch 
could  not  open,  when  he  heard  these  words. 
^'  Certainly,  my  lad,"  said  the  priest,  getting  up 
and  following  him  to  the  room,  while  a  mis- 
chievous little  fellow,  named  Johnny  Lennon, 
who  had  been  at  sea,  kept  egging  Jack  on  to 
some  deed  of  vengeance,  by  telling  him  of  Madge 
Murrin's  journey  to  Naas. 

Simon's  wife  had  forgotten  to  bring  spoons, 
and  Polsh  had  none.  The  tea  was  in  one  conical 
bag,  and  the  sugar  in  another  :  she  stuck  one  Id 


240  THE    STATION. 

each  side  of  her  bosom,  and  extracted  their  con 
tents  with  her  fingers,  and  her  mode  of  pouring 
out  tea  was  this.  I  suppose,  reader,  you  have, 
like  myself,  often  stood  gazing  at  a  jet  d'eau  in 
the  Temple,  at  Hampton  Court,  or  elsewhere,  and 
marked  how  the  aqueous  column  would  some- 
times fall  almost  down  to  the  level  of  the  water, 
sometimes  rise,  till  you  would  think  it  was  going 
to  out-top  the  trees, — even  so  did  Polsh  play  off 
her  teapot :  now  raising  it  aloft,  then  lowering  it 
to  the  edge  of  the  cups;  and  still,  as  she  gazed 
on  the  bright  brown  tea-column,  she  called  out 
in  admiration,  "  Isn't  that  fine  tay,  Father  Miley  ? 
Isn't  that  fine  taij.  Father  Miley  ?" 

Tea  was  over,  the  priest  and  most  of  the  com- 
pany were  gone,  when  Jack,  followed  by  Johnny 
Lennon,  came  into  the  room.  Jack  fell  on  Polsh, 
who  defended  herself,  stoutly  backed  by  Simon's 
wife  and  Molly  Mulreany,  The  women  were 
too  many  for  Jack  at  the  tongue  ;  he  lost  his 
temper,  and  caught  up  a  stick,  and  demolished 
the  tay-tackle,  as  he  irreverently  termed  Mrs. 
Beaghan's  tea-equipage.  Then  came  the  tug  of 
war.  "  You  neger  !  you  black  neger  you  !  You 
vagabond,  that  would  skin  a  flea  for  the  hide  and 
fat !  You  dirty  spalpeen,  that  has  not  a  heart  big 
enough  to  make  a  tarpaulin  for  the  ace  o'  hearts  ! " 
and  similar  elegant  figures  of  rhetoric,  poured  in 
a  torrent  from   the  lips  of  Mrs.  Beaghan,  who 


THE    STATION.  -^^^ 


was  with  difficulty  appeased,  by  every  one  re- 
minding  her  that  Jack  "  never  was  good,  egg 
nor  bird,"  that  "you  can't  get  milk  from  a 
pavincr-stone,"  or  "  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a 
sow 's  ear,"  and  such  like  consolatory  expressions. 
So  at  last  the  storm  blew  over. 

So  ended  the  station  dinner.     But  it  was  near 

proving  a  dear  dinner  to  Johnny  Lennon,  for 

Polsh  Took  a  strong  hatred  to  him.     And,  reader, 

if  you  like  this  sketch,  I  may  next  year,  if  I  live, 

^.11  you  how  Johnny  was  tried  before  the  great 

Lord  Norbury,  for  robbing  the  Beaghans ;  and 

low  Tolsh   swore  hard  against  him ;  and  how 

Johnny,  though  innocent,  had  liked  to  be  hanged  ; 

jvith  sundry  other  strange  events. 

l'envoy. 

Go,  httle  tale,  and  say,  reader,  beware  that 
.hou  take  not  me  for  a  picture  of  the  general 
character  and  habits  of  Irish  farmers  :  the  Bea- 
ghans were  sui  generis,  and  resembled  no  others. 
I  have  been,  writing  to  exhilarate  thee,  and  there- 
by promote  thy  health— for  what  saith  the  old 
saw  ?  "  Laugh  and  be  fat :"  and  to  instruct  thee 
in  the  nature  of  a  station,  and  other  things,  with 
which,  peradventure,  thou  hast  been  hitherto 
unacquainted. 

21 


242 


THE  GUITAR 

BV   THE   AUTHOR   OF    "THE   POET's   OFFEBINS." 

How  softly  and  sweetly  it  sounds  from  afar, 
O'er  the  blue  waters,  the  lively  guitar ; 
How  softly  and  sweetly,  beneath  the  bright  moon, 
On  the  lonely  parterre,  in  the  crowded  saloon. 

flow  softly  and  sweetly,  when  daylight  is  gone, 
And  the  dim  floating  shadows  of  evening  come 

on ; 
How  softly  and  sweetly,  from  window  or  bower, 
It  cheats  of  its  sadness  the  wearisome  hour. 

How  softly  and  sweetly  its  delicate  notes, 
Wide  o'er  the  landscape  in  harmony  floats  ; 
How  softly  and  sweetly  its  quivering  chords 
Give  accent  and  meaning:  to  musical  words. 


o 


How  softly  and  sweetly  —  hark !  hark !   o'er  the 

bay 
Two  answering  lovers  m  unison  play ! 
Now  in  a  plaintive  and  sorrowing  strain — 
And  now  in  the  accents  of  gladness  again. 


THE    GUITAR.  243 

How  softly  and  sweetly  some  beautiful  nun. 
When  the  task  of  her  Ave  Maria  is  done, 
Steals  to  the  lattice  and  mournfully  plays 
To  the  friends  and  the  lovers  of  happier  days. 

How  softly  and  sweetly  it  sounds  from  afar, 
O'er  the  blue  waters,  the  lively  guitar ! 
How  softly  and  sweetly,  beneath  the  bright  mooES 
On  the  lonely  parterre,  in  the  crowded  sal  oon. 


244 


THE  KUSTIC  TOILET. 

BY     M .     R.     MITFORD, 


"To  hold  the  plough  for  her  aweet  love." 

Shakspeare. 


A  PLEASANT  and  a  stirring  scene  was  the  barr- 
vard  of  Farmer  Holden  of  Hilton,  one  of  the 
principal  tenants  of  our  friend  Colonel  Lisle  of 
that  ilk,  (if  it  be  permitted  to  a  Southron  to  bor- 
row that  expressive  phrase,)  on  one  of  the  plea- 
santest  and  sunniest  evenings  of  this  last  most 
sunny  month  of  April,  when,  as  if  to  overset  all 
the  calculations  of  all  the  almanac-makers  from 
Mr.  Murphy  downward,  and  in  direct  defiance  of 
those  safer  general  prognostics  derived  from  old 
experience,  there  has  not  fallen  in  this  fair 
county  of  Berks,  from  the  first  to  the  thirtieth, 
one  single  drop  of  rain.  A  bright  and  a  lively 
scene  did  the  barn-yard  of  Hilton  Great  Farm 
exhibit  on  that  bright  April  evening.  Seen  be- 
tween the  large  wheat-ricks  and  bean-stacks  and 
hay-ricks,  the  barns  and  stables,  the  cart-houses, 
hen-houses,  and  pig-sties,  which,  together  with 
the  old-fashioned  rambling  dwelling-house,  large 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET.  245 

enouofh  to  form  two  or  three  fine  cottaj^es  ornees 
in  these  degenerate  days ;  seen  between  the 
various  buildings  which  with  all  conceivable 
irregularity  surrounded  the  spacious  farm-yard; 
glittering  with  the  clean  crisp  covering  of  strav,' 
with  which  it  was  very  literally  littered,  and  giv- 
ing due  token  of  their  presence  by  bleatings  of 
lambs  seeking  their  mothers,  and  ewes  in  pur- 
suit of  their  lambs,  by  barking  of  dogs  and  shout- 
ing of  men  and  boys,  were  the  fine  flocks  of 
Farmer  Holden  returning  from  their  distant  pas- 
tures to  the  fold  in  a  rich  meadow  near  the  home- 
stead ;  horses  mounted  by  young  carter-boys 
sitting  loungingly  upon  their  naked  backs,  ana 
riding  them  to  and  from  the  village  pond  with 
an  indescribable  air  of  lazy  pride ;  whilst  cows, 
driven  by  urchins  on  foot  somewhat  brisker,  but 
every  whit  as  dirty,  stumbled  amongst  the  sheep 
and  jostled  the  horses  in  their  haste  to  reach  the 
calves,  who  were  lowing  in  their  pens  eager  for 
the  moment  that  should  at  once  appease  their 
own  "  pleasant  enemy  hunger,"  and  relieve  the 
"  mothers  of  the  herd  "  of  their  milky  burthen. 

Mingled  with  these  larger  comers  and  goers, 
biped  and  quadruped,  together  with  occasional 
passers-by,  as  the  thresher  or  the  seedsman  flung 
himself  heavily  over  the  threshold  of  the  barn,  or 
the  ploughman  stalked  from  the  stable  to  the 
hay-rick,  were  innumerable  lesser  denizens  of 
21=^ 


246  THE    RUSTia  TOILET. 

this  well-peopled  agricultural  demesne.  Pigs  ol 
all  ages  and  all  sizes  lay  wallowing  about  the 
yard;  and  poultry  of  every  denomination,  from 
geese  and  turkeys  to  bantams  and  pigeons, 
cackled  at  the  barn-doors,  dabbled  in  the  pondS; 
fluttered  discontented  in  the  coops,  or  perched  in 
happy  freedom  on  the  roofs  of  the  different  build- 
ings ;  whilst  one  or  two  small  and  pretty  chil- 
dren, one  with  a  kitten  in  its  hand,  leaning 
eagerly  over  the  low  hatch-gate  which  extended 
from  side  to  side  of  the  deep  old  porch,  as  if  long- 
ing to  escape  from  this  their  own  peculiar  coop, 
added  to  the  general  agreeableness  of  the  picture.  . 
Sweetbriar  in  its  tender  green  and  fresh  fra- 
grance grew  on  one  side  of  that  old  dark  porch, 
and  an  early  honey-suckle,  already  putting  forth 
its  buds,  flourished  on  the  other.  July-stocks, 
wall-flowers,  and  polyanthuses  sent  their  sweet 
breath  through  the  lattice  windows  divided  by 
rich  stone  mullions  ;  a  large  cherry  tree  waved 
its  snowy  blossoms,  scattering  light  at  one  end 
of  the  house,  backed  by  a  rich,  rosy-tinted, 
almond-scented  orchard,  whilst  in  a  nook  be- 
tween a  dark  fagot-pile  and  a  huge  open  cart- 
house,  the  sun  glanced  upwards  on  an  old  elder- 
tree,  turning  the  trunk  into  gold,  and  the  Avide- 
spreading  branches  drooping  Avith  the  weight  of 
the  redundant  foliage,  and  the  swelling  flower- 
buds   into  pendant  emeralds ;    the  clouds  were 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET.  247 

white  and  fleecy,  the  sky  of  the  brightest  and 
purest  blue,  and  the  woody  uplands  which 
formed  the  framework  of  the  scenery  full  of 
hedge-row  timber  just  putting  forth  its  youngest 
and  most  delicate  "  greenth." 

A  gay  and  a  pretty  picture  was  that  crowded 
farm-yard,  and  yet  the  two  principal  figures  still 
remain  undescribed.  Seated  upon  a  low  wooden 
stool,  engaged  in  the  operation  of  administering 
certain  small  pellets  of  dough  to  some  three- 
score of  callow  gaping  struggling  goslings  —  (in 
the  pure  Doric  of  Berkshire  this  operation  is 
called  "  pilling  the  gulls  ")  —  was  a  young  woman 
of  middle  height,  whose  person,  sufficiently  well 
formed  but  somewhat  large-boned  and  muscular, 
betokened  such  an  union  of  activity  and  strength 
as  might  probably  be  more  common  in  the  weaker 
sex  if  the  bountiful  intentions  of  nature  were  duly 
seconded  by  education  and  circumstance  —  if 
girls  took  more  exercise  and  passed  more  time 
in  the  open  air.  Her  face  could  hardly  be  called 
pretty,  far  less  beautiful ;  and  yet  in  the  bright 
laughing  eyes,  the  red  lips  just  enough  divided 
to  show  the  pearly  teeth,  and  a  dimple  at  one 
comer  of  the  mouth,  the  clear,  healthy  sunburnt 
complexion,  and  an  expression  compounded  of 
frankness,  sweetness,  and  gaiety,  there  was  more 
of  charm  than  is  often  to  be  found  in  tbe  most 


248  THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 

regular  beauty.     And  so  in  good  truth  tlioughl 
her  companion. 

She,  from  her  occupation  and  her  dress,  hei 
dark  cotton  gown,  her  double  muslin  handker- 
chief, her  simple  cap,  as  well  as  the  sleeves  turned 
up  above  her  elbows,  and  the  colored  apron  tied 
over  her  white  one,  was  evidently  a  farm-house 
serving-maiden  just  tidied  up  after  going  through 
the  most  laborious  of  her  many  offices,  and  fin- 
ishing her  day's  work  by  supplying  the  manifold 
wants  of  her  feathered  charges,  and  milking  the 
kine,  if  indeed  the  calves  did  not  spare  her  the 
trouble.  He,  a  fine-looking  young  man,  rather 
tall  than  short,  but  firmly  and  vigorously  formed, 
with  a  bright  open  countenance  and  a  glo\Aang 
complexion,  was  as  evidently  a  farmer's  son. 
His  straw  hat  was  placed  rather  on  one  side  on 
his  glossy  auburn  curls,  with  the  true  air  of  a 
village  beau,  and  his  dark  velveteen  jacket,  and 
the  silk  handkerchief  just  knotted  round  his 
throat  had  as  much  of  real  study  in  the  apparent 
carelessness  of  their  adjustment  as  would  have 
done  honor  to  the  veriest  coxcomb  of  one-and- 
twenty  that  ever  danced  at  Almack's — personal 
vanity  being  astonishingly  alike  in  all  stations. 
A  coxcomb,  I  grieve  to  say,  was  Maurice  Elliott; 
and  yet,  being  heartily  in  love,  he  had  the  best 
chance  that  could  befall  him  of  getting  rid  of 
his  coxcombry.     At  present,  however,  to  judgo 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET.  249 

by   the   dialogue   passing-  between   them,   theii 
«  course  of  true  love"  was  very  far  from  "  run 
nino-  smooth."     It  was  more  like  a  game  of  cross 
purposes  than  a  meeting  of  sunset  between  two 

1  )vers.  . 

«  You  won't  go  with  me,  then,  tc  the  Maying, 
Phoebe?"  said  the  youth,  impatiently,  twisting 
•  round  his  fingers  a  long,  supple  branch  which  he 
had  just  twitched  from  a  weeping-willow  that 
overhung  the  goose-pond,  never  dreaming  the 
while  thit  he  was,  so  far  as  action  went,  emulat- 
ing one  of  the  most  eloquent  women  that  ever 
griced  blue  stockings.     "  You  won't  go  with  me 

to  the  Maying  ? " 

«  You  won't  try  for  a  prize  at  the  ploughing- 
match,  Maurice?  You  really  won't  try?  really 
and  indeed  you  won't?"  rejoined  the  damsel, 
poking  one  of  her  pellets  with  a  little  stick  dowm 
a  gosling's  throat,  and  following  the  dose  by  p 
drop  or  "two  of  water  to  clear  the  passage  foi 
another  morsel.  "  Do  try,  Maurice  ' "  continued 
she,  in  a  tone  of  voice  sweet  and  round  and 
youthful,  — a  spoken  smile.     "  Do  try  ! " 

"  When  I  know,"  cried  Maurice,  still  twistmg 
the  unlucky  bit  of  willow,  "  that  you  have  got 
leave  to  go  out  that  very  day !  Of  course  to  the 
Maying  !  and  not  to  go  with  me  ! "  And  Mau 
rice  gave  the  bit  of  willow  which  he  had  twisted 
round  his  finger  such  a  tug  with  his  other  hand 


250  THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 

as  had  nearly  cut  that  useful  mejnber  to  the 
bone.  ''  Got  leave  to  go,  and  won't  go  with 
me!" 

"  When  you  won't  try  at  the  plough — " 

"  Hang  the  ploughing-match ! "  ejaculated  Mau 
lice,  shaking  his  discomfited  finger;  "  Hang  the 
ploughing-match ! " 

"  When  you  won't  try  for  a  prize,"  continued 
Phoebe,  quietly  taking  another  gosling  upon  her 
lap,  "  you  who  know  that  you  can  plough  a& 
straight  a  furrow  as  old  Giles  Bowling  himself! " 

"  Hang  Giles  Bowling,  Phosbe  !  My  father 
was  a  farmer,  and  though,  to  please  him,  and 
since  his  death,  to  humor  mother,  I  may  have 
gone  between  the  stilts,  there  's  no  need  to  let 
myself  down  m  the  eyes  of  the  whole  parish. 
What  would  that  cold,  sneering,  purse-proud 
uncle  of  mine  and  his  fine  daughters  say,  I  won- 
der ?  Come,  Phoebe,  don't  look  so  grave — you  '11 
go  to  the  Maying,  won't  you  ?  "What  can  hin- 
der you,  now  that  you  've  got  leave?  Come,  and 
I  '11  drive  you  in  my  own  chaise-cart  with  my 
new  chestnut  horse." 

"  What  would  your  proud  uncle  and  fine 
cousins  say  to  that,  I  wonder  ?  You  are  a  farm- 
er's son,  as  you  truly  say,  Mr.  Maurice  Elliott, 
ami  I  am  a  laborer's  daughter.  God  forbid  that  I 
should  be  ashamed  of  being  the  child  of  an  hon^ 
est  man,  let  his  condition  be  ever  so  poor  ! "  and 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET.  25 

Phoebe,  though  her  tone  was  gentle,  drew  her 
stool  a  little  back  with  an  air  of  self-respect  that 
approached  to  dignity. 

Her  lover  felt  the  reproof. 

"  Forgive  me,  dearest  Phoebe !  pray,  pray  for- 
give me  !  I  did  not  intend — I  did  not  dream — 
oh !  Phoebe,  I  never  think  of  you  but  as  one  so 
much  better  than  myself !  You  do  forgive  me, 
then  ? "  said  he,  answering  the  bright  dimpled 
smile  which  required  no  words  to  confirm  her 
pardon.  "  You  do  forgive  me,  and  you'll  let  me 
drive  you  to  this  Maying  ?  We  are  to  have  a 
cricket-match  and  a  dance,  and  it  will  be  so  pretty 
a  sight !  Why  do  you  shake  your  head  ?  Is 
there  any  secret  in  the  matter  ?  " 

"  No  secret  at  all,  Maurice,"  said  Phcebe. 
"  I  '11  tell  you  the  truth  ;  you  '11  not  be  ashamed 
of  it,  though  your  fine  cousins  would.  Poor 
Uncle  George  has  been  so  ill  this  spring  that  he 
has  not  been  able  to  get  his  allotment  dug  oi 
planted,  and  you  know  the  allotment  ground  is 
his  chief  dependence.  The  children  would  be 
half-starved  without  the  vegetables,  and  the  refuse 
keeps  the  pig.  So  father  and  mother  are  going 
to  give  him  a  day's  labor  to  get  in  the  potatoes, 
and  I  'm  going  to  help.  That 's  my  holiday,  and 
a  very  happy  one  it  will  be.  Uncle  George  was 
always  so  good  to  me,  and  so  was  aunt,  and 


252  THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 

love  the  children  dearly.  You  '11  see  what  a  day  % 
work  1  shall  do." 

"  Dear  good  Phoebe  I  I  wish  I  could  help  too  ; 
only  I  have  promised  to  make  one  of  the  eleven, 
and  I  can't  desert  them  just  at  last.  But  I  '11  tell 
you  what  I  can  do.  Your  little  cousin  George, 
who  lives  with  us,  I  can  let  him  go  home  and 
help." 

Anothei  bright  smile  repaid  the  kindness. 

"  But  this  ploughing-match,  Maurice  !  that  will 
be  a  pretty  sight  too  !  And  you,  who  can  do 
everything  better  than  the  other  lads  of  the  par- 
ish, why  should  not  you  be  as  proud  of  being  the 
best  ploughman  as  the  best  cricketer  or  the  best 
shot  ?  Nay,  but  you  must  listen  to  me,  Maurice  : 
whatever  the  purse-proud  uncle  or  the  fine  cou- 
sins may  say,  1  have  good  cause  to  believe  that 
your  trying  for  the  prize  would  please  one  person 
besides  myself — your  own  good  landlord,  Colonel 
Lisle." 

Maurice's  brow  darkened.  He  drew  up  his 
person  to  his  full  stature  and  spoke  angrily  and 
bitterly :  — 

"  My  own  good  landlord !  Would  you  believe, 
Phoebe,  that  after  living  upon  his  estate,  I  and  my 
fathers,  these  hundred  years  and  more,  paying 
his  rent  to  a  day,  and  doing  as  much  justice  to 
his  land  as  if  it  were  really  our  own,  this  good 
\andlord  of  ours,  the  lease  being  upon  the  point 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 


253 


of  expiring,  has  sent  us  notice  to  quit  ?  actually 
sent  us  notice  to  quit!"  He  turned  away  in 
proud  and  angry  sorrow. 

''  Notice  !  but  has  any  one  taken  the  farm  ?' 
luquired  Phcebe. 

"  Not  yet,  I  fancy ;  but  he  will  find  no  diffi- 
culty in  letting  it.  The  lands  lie  close  to  my 
uncle's,  and  I  have  sometimes  thought— at  all 
events  we  have  notice."  , 

"  But  for  what  reason  ?  " 
"  Oh  !  your  rich  landlord  can  easily  find  a  rea- 
son for  ridding  himself  of  a  poor  tenant.     The 
message  was  civil  enough  as  regarded  mother. 
If  she  had  wished  to  remain  in  the  farm  he  would 
have  had  no  objection;  but,  as  her  request  was  that 
the  lease  might  be  renewed  in  my  favor,  he  could 
not  comply.     I  was  unfit  for  a  farmer,  he  said  ; 
never  in  my  busmess,  always  shooting,  or  cours- 
ing or  cricketing ;  never  at  home  ;  never  attend- 
ing to  the  main  chance  ;  unthrifty  in  everything; 

an°d  about,  he  heard" and  then,  suddenly, 

Maurice  Elliott  checked  himself  and  paused. 

«  About  to  marry  a  poor  girl  without  a  farth- 
mg,  when  you  might  have  married  your  cousin 
Harriet,  with  more  money  than  I  know  how  to 
reckon.  Oh!  Maurice!  Maurice!  little  did  I 
think  when  your  own  dear  mother  gave  her  con- 
sent, because  I  was  active  and  industrious  and  an 
honest  man's  daughter,  and  because  the  son  she 
22 


254  THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 

loved  so  well  loved  me,  little  did  I  think  that  she 
would  be  turned  from  her  home  for  that  fireat 
goodness.  But  it  must  not  be,  dear  Maurice ! 
We  must  part !  We  must  not  marry,  to  have 
your  mother  turned  out  of  doors ;  neither  of  us 
would  be  happy  so.  I  can  speak  to  my  mistress 
—  she  is  so  very  kind — and  go  to  live  with  her 
friends  a  great  way  off.  And  you  will  give  up 
coursing  and  shooting,  (you  know  you  had 
promised  me  to  do  that,)  and  then,  when  Colonel 
Lisle  finds  that  your  heart  is  in  your  business,  all 
will  go  right  again,  and  you  will  stay  at  the  Lin- 
den Farm,  and  we  shall  be  happy."  And  by 
way  of  earnest  of  this  coming  felicity,  poor  Phoebe 
burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  sobbing. 

Maurice  exhausted  himself  in  protestations  — 
to  do  him  justice,  most  sincere  —  of  love,  ever- 
lasting love,  to  Phffibe,  and  hatred,  equally  dura- 
ble and  equally  sincere,  towards  uncle,  cousin, 
landlord,  and,  in  short,  all  who  sought  to  separate 
him  from  his  beloved;  assuring  her  that  Colonel 
Lisle's  whole  estate  would  not  bribe  him  to  re- 
nounce his  engagement  ;  that,  go  where  she 
might,  he  would  follow;  and  that,  so  far  from 
desiring  to  continue  at  their  old  home,  nothing 
would  induce  him  to  remain  the  tenant  of  a  land- 
lord so  unjust  and  despotic,  one  who  had  con- 
aemned,  without  hearing,  the  descendant  of  a 
face  who  had  lived  under  his  father  and   his 


THE    RUSTIC   TOILET.  255 

father's  fathers — ay,  even  from  the  planting  of 
the  great  lime  trees  which  gave  their  name  to 
the  farm.     But  if  Maurice  was  vehement,  Phoebe, 
whose  hysterical  sobbing  had  ended  in  quiet  and 
relieving  tears,  continued  gently  firm. 

"  You  would  not  make  me  ^\Tetched,  Maurice, 
I  know  that  you  would  not ;  and  how  could  I  be 
otherwise  if  I  were  to  cause  your  ruin  ?  I  shall 
o-o  into  Kent,  to  Mrs.  Holden's  sister,  and  Colonel 
Lisle  will  think  better  than  to  dismiss  the  son  of 
his  old  tenant.  Go  to  him,  dear  Maurice! 
Speak  to  him  yourself!     Explain  —  " 

"  Go  to  him,  indeed  !  Speak  to  him !  Ex- 
plain !  I  can  tell  you,  Phoebe,  that  he  must  come 
to  me  if  he  wishes  me  to  stay  upon  his  land. 
There  are  other  farms  in  the  county  besides  his. 
We  are  no  bond-slaves,  blessed  be  God  !  in  merry 
England.  But  don't  you  go,  Phoebe  !  Stay,  and 
let  me  tell  you  of  my  plans ;  or,  if  you  must  go, 
promise  at  least  to  see  me,  and  to  give  me  a  full 
hearing,  before  you  leave  Hilton.  Promise  me 
this.  Slay  at  least  till  this  ploughing-match 
is  over.  That  will  be  a  holiday  far  and  near. 
See   me   then,  smd   I  will   let  this  dear  hand 

go." 

And  Phoebe,  blushing,  sighing,  and  protesting 
against  a  meeting  which  would  only  be  a  renewal 
of  pain,  did,  however,  give  the  required  promise; 
»nd  the  lovers  parted — she  for  her  in-door  duties. 


256  THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 

and  he  for  the  home  he  was  so  soon  to  relin- 
quish. 

They  who  witness  those  pretty  rural  festivals, 
with  all  their  picturesque  accessaries  of  tent  and 
marquee,  banners    and   bands,  gay  and   happy 
crowds,   shaded  by  noble   trees  and  lighted  by 
bright  sunshine,  and  fanned  by  the  sweet  airs  of 
the  fairest  of  the  seasons ;  or  they  who  read  the 
elaborate  account  of  the  day's  proceedings  in  the 
county  newspapers,  where  all  is  chronicled,  en 
couleur  de  7'ose,  from  the  earliest  procession  to 
the  latest  cheer,  little  guess  the  trouble,  and  tur- 
moil, and  tracasseries  which  this  apparently  most 
amicable,  and  peaceful  celebration  occasions  in  its 
district.     The  ostensible  competitors,  whose  prov- 
ince it  is  to  contend  for  the  prizes,  are  for  the 
most  part,  (the  winners  being  satisfied  of  course, 
and  the  losers  soothed  and  comforted  by  encour- 
aging speeches  and  a  good  dinner,  —  solid  pud- 
ding added  to  empty  pr,iise,)  as  good-humored  and 
contented  as  heart  can  desire ;  their  unlucky  pa- 
trons and  protectors,  the  Association,  in  its  own 
proper  person,  having  previously  gone  through 
as  much  fussing  and  disputing,  squabbling  and 
quarrelling,  as  would  carry  a  candid^1te  througn 
a  county  election,  or  produce  a  tragedy  upon  the 
boards  of  a  theatre  royal.  • 

One  committee-man  threatened  to  resign  be- 
cause he  was  not  a  vice-president,  and  one  vice* 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET.  2J7 

president  did  send  in  his  resignation  because  he 
was  not  the  president.  One  ver}^  great  man,  (an 
Earl,)  applied  to  to  assume  that  high  office,  never 
anssvered  the  secretary's  letter  ;  and  another 
great  man,  (a  Viscount,)  coquetted,  and  poohei 
and  pshawed,  and  finally  declined  because  the 
Earl  had  been  written  to  first.  The  committee 
had  five  meetings  to  consider  of  the  place  where 
they  ought  to  meet ;  four  to  consider  of  the  day 
of  celebration  ;  three  of  the  hour  of  dinner  ;  and 
the  grand  question  of  in  doors  or  out  of  doors, 
marquee  or  barn,  very  nearly  caused  a  dissolution 
of  the  society ;  party  having  run  so  high  that  two 
of  the  members,  after  scolding  themselves  hoarse, 
arrived  at  that  state  of  dumb  resentment  which 
answ^ers  to  the  white  heat  of  the  anvil,  and  did 
not  speak.  They  quarrelled  about  the  value  of 
the  clothes,  about  the  devices  of  the  banners, 
about  the  colors  of  the  cockades,  —  in  short,  there 
was  nothing  which  admitted  of  two  opinions 
about  which  they  did  not  quarrel ;  so  that  the 
chief  dignitaries  of  the  association,  the  chairman, 
treasurer  and  secretary,  who  had  endeavored  to 
add  to  their  several  offices  that  of  pacificators- 
general,  declared  that  all  the  ploughmen  and  all 
their  teams  would  not  work  half  as  hard  on  the 
day  of  trial  as  they  had  done  during  the  time  of 
the  preparation. 

But  if  this  spirit  of  opposition,  for  opposition's 
22^ 


25S  THE    RirSTlC    TOILET. 

sake,  be  a  little  too  much  the  fashion  m  our  fiee 
country,  where  the  good  yeoman  who  subscribes 
his  five  shillings  claims  "  a  voice  potential,  as 
double  as  the  duke's,"  who  lays  down  his  twen;y 
pounds,  (and  that  the  facts  are  little  exaggerated 
will  be  readily  admitted  by  most  who  have  been 
behind  the  scenes  in  such  societies,)  so  let  me 
proudly  say  the  ill-humor,  having  once  found  a 
vent,  works  itself  clear,  and  the  rough  burly  dis- 
putants come  round  again,  shake  hands,  and  hear 
reason,  with  a  readiness  and  facility  just  as  char- 
acteristic of  our  national  manners,  where  a  squab- 
ble once  over  is  over  forever,  and  a  quarrel  fairly 
reconciled  only  leaves  the  opponents  faster  friends 
than  before.  Accordingly,  by  the  time  the  ap- 
pointed 'day  arrived,  all  was  peace,  and  amity, 
and  joyous  bustle,  and  the  scene  took  its  usual 
cordial  and  hearty  character  of  a  meeting  calcu- 
lated to  advance  the  interests  and  promote  the 
happiness  of  all  classes. 

Some  weeks  had  elapsed  since  the  dialogue 
between  the  lovers  in  Farmer  Holden's  barnyard, 
and  reports  were  rife  in  the  village  of  a  strange 
change  in  the  fortunes  of  the  young  tenant  of  the 
Linden  Farm.  His  father's  will,  it  was  said, 
threw  him  entirely  into  the  power  of  his  hard- 
heartea  and  purse-proud  uncle,  Stephen  Elliott. 
There  were  different  versions  of  the  story,  and 
no  one  spoke  as  of  positive  knowledge ;  but  on© 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET.  259 

fact  seemed  certain,  tnat  Maurice's  negotiation  for 
a  farm  of  the  same  extent  with  that  which  he  now 
occupied  had  been  cut  short  by  the  intervention 
of  his  stern  relative,  and  that  he  was  now  seeking 
to  rent  a  few  acres  of  pasture-land  attached  to  a 
cottage  in  the  Moors.  He  and  Phoebe  had  not 
again  met,  but  pursuant  to  her  promise,  she  had 
not  yet  left  Hilton,  and  was  now  dressing  for  the 
ploughing  match  at  her  mother's  cottage,  with  a 
feeling  of  lightheartedness  for  which  she  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  account.  Was  she  — 
could  she  be  conscious  that  her  lover's  gaze  was 
fixed  upon  her  through  the  open  door  ?  or  was 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  no  longer  the  rich 
and,  to  use  the  country  phrase,  the  somewhat 
prodigal  young  farmer,  but  nearer  her  own  level, 
brightening  her  eyes,  and  glowing  in  her  cheek, 
with  a  hope  that  she  had  never  put  into  words, 
—  a  hope  unacknowledged  even  to  her  own 
heart  ?  or  did  she  give  more  credit  than  she 
thought  she  did  to  the  report  of  her  little  cousin 
George,  that  he  and  his  master  were,  after  all,  to 
try  for  the  prizes  at  the  ploughing-match  ?  Phoebe 
knew  that  Stephen  Elliott  had  said,  with  his 
scornful  sneer  and  bitter  tone,  "  Let  him  try  for 
the  suit  of  clothes  —  he  may  want  'em!"  and 
Phoebe  knew  enough  of  her  lover's  temper  to  feel 
that  this  very  taunt,  uttered  to  keep  him  from  the 
scene,  was  likely  to  take  a  different  effect  upon 


260  THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 

his  high  spirit.  "  At  all  events,"  thought  she, 
«  I  shall  see  him ! "  and  she  dressed'  herself  in  a 
flutter  of  spirits,  with  which  vanity  had  little  to 
do,  and  then  sat  down  quietly  to  await  her  father, 
whom  she  was  to  accompany,  and  to  whom  the 
first  prize  was  allotted,  as  having  brought  up  a 
large  family  in  credit  and  respectability  without 
receiving  parochial  assistance.  The  hale  old 
man,  in  his  well-preserved  Sunday  coat,  with  his 
gray  hair  smoothed  down  over  his  honest  face, 
and  his  pretty  daughter  hanging  upon  his  arm, 
as  they  walked  to  the  ground  after  the  match 
was  over,  formed  one  of  the  most  interesting 
groups  of  the  day. 

The  scene  was  really  beautiful.  Upon  an  ex- 
tensive lawn,  richly  dotted  with  magnificent 
trees,  and  backed  by  a  noble  mansion  embowered 
in  woods,  stood  a  splendid  central  marquee,  with 
smaller  tents  on  either  side ;  flags  and  banners 
waved  around  the  tents,  and  crowned  the  lofty 
decorated  building  arched  with  lilacs  and  laburn- 
hams,  where  the  gentlemen  were  to  dine ;  and 
the  large,  low,  open  cart-house,  overhung  by  a 
down-hanging  elm,  prepared  for  the  ploughmen  ; 
carriages  were  driving  up  in  close  succession, 
horses  prancing,  music  playing,  and,  (to  borrow 
the  words  of  the  County  Chronicle,)  all  the 
beauty  and  fashion  of  the  neighborhood  were  col- 
'ected  in  front  of  the  tents  to  witness  the  distri- 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET.  261 

bution  of  the  prizes,  and,  best  of  all,  they  who 
had  earned  those  prizes,  the  sturdy  tillers  of  the 
soil,  clean,  healthy,  and  happy,  their  delighted 
v/ives  and  daughters,  and  the  stout  yeomen,  their 
masters,  triumphing  in  the  success  of  their  labor- 
ers. Add  to  this  the  lucky  accident  of  a  sunny 
day  in  the  most  genial  of  the  seasons,  and  every 
advantage  of  light,  and  shadow,  and  shifting 
clouds,  and  the  result  will  be  a  scene  too  wide 
for  the  painter,  but  rich,  and  bright,  and  joyous 
as  ever  inspired  a  poet  in  the  merry  month  of 
May. 

Phoebe  looked  only  for  one  figure, — and  there, 
dressed  like  the  rest  of  the  competitors  in  a  white 
smock-frock,  his  head  decked  with  a  double 
cockade,  as  winner  not  only  of  the  regular  match, 
but  of  a  subsequent  prize  for  ploughing  with  two 
horses,  stood  Maurice  Elliott,  and  close  beside 
him  her  little  cousin  George,  sticking  his  hat,  also 
doubly  cockaded,  as  high  as  possible  upon  his 
head,  and  fair  y  standing  on  tiptoe,  that  his  hon- 
ors might  be  more  conspicuous.  Near  him,  so 
placed  as  to  appear  to  belong  rather  to  the  gentry 
than  to  the  wealthy  yeomen,  in  which  order  he 
was  really  classed,  leaned  his  uncle  Stephen,  his 
accustomed  scornful  sneer  darkened  as  if  by 
stronger  passions. 

The  ceremony  and  its  attendant  speeches 
being  over,  Colonel  Lisle  approached  Phcebe  and 


S62  THE    JUSTIC    TOILET. 

her  father,  now  also  wearing  the  decorations  of 
the  day,  and  joined  by  little  George,  and,  patting 
the  boy  s  cheek,  he  said  graciously  to  the  old 
man,  "  Why,  you  and  your  nephew  are  carrying 
off  all  our  prizes." 

"  Add  his  son-in-law,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said 
Maurice  Elliott,  approaching  the  group,  holding 
in  one  hand  the  hat  decked  with  blue  cockades 
of  success,  and  shaking  hands  heartily  with  the 
grayheaded  and  venerable  old  peasant :  "  Add 
his  son-in-law ;  for  such  I  shall  be  as  soon  as 
the  bans  can  be  published,  for  I  have  no  money 
now  to  throw  away  upon  a  license.  All  is 
settled,"  continued  he,  in  a  lower  tone,  to  the 
old  man  ;  "  Phosbe  consented  as  soon  as  ever  I 
proved  to  her  that  not  only  my  happiness  but  my 
prosperity  depended  upon  my  marrying  such  a 
wife  as  herself — pooh!  as  soon  as  I  proved  that 
my  happiness  depended  upon  my  marrying  her 
—  for  there  is  not  such  another  in  the  world ;  and 
Joseph  Clarkson,  finding  that  I  am  to  have  her 
to  manage  the  dairy,  has  consented  to  let  me 
rent  his  thirty  acres  down  in  the  Moors,  and  the 
little  homestead  belonging  to  it.  There  's  a  cap- 
ital garden;  and  during  my  spare  time  I  shall 
raise  vegetables  for  the  Belford  market,  and 
mother  '11  live  with  us  ;  and  you  '11  see  how 
happy  we  shall  be ! "  "  And  happiness  danced  in 
the  young  man  's  eyes  as,  again  wringing   the 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET.  263 

old  laborer's  hand,  he  turned  away  to  join  hia 

Phoebe. 

"Stop!"  exclahned  Colonel  Lisle,  who,  irre- 
sistibly attracted  by  the  sudden  alteration  in  his 
tenant's  manner  and  conduct,  had  been  unable  to 
refrain  from  listening  to  the  conversation — "  Stop 
one  moment,  Maurice  Elliott,"  said  he,  kindly ; 
"  and  tell  me  what  this  means  !  —  Joseph  Clark- 
son's  land  in  the  Moors  !  and  yoar  mother  to  live 
with  you  there !     Why,  in  leaving  the  Linden, 
there  will  be  the  stock,  and  the  crops,  and  the 
farming  utensils,  enough,  whether  you  retain  or 
dispose  of  them,  to  set  you  up  in  one  of  the  best 
farms  in  the  county.     All  was  left,  I  know,  to 
you  and  your  mother.      Surely  you  have  not, 
since  your  father's  death,  involved  yourself  in 
such  debt  as  to  render  this  change  of  situation 
necessary  ? " 

"  I  owe  no  man  a  farthing,  sir,"  replied  Mau- 
rice, with  some  pride  of  accent  and  manner :  then, 
catching  the  kindly  glance  of  his  landlord,  he 
continued,  mildly  and  respectfully,  "  Everything 
was  left  to  my  mother  and  myself;  but,  either 
by  accident  or  design — I  believe — I  am  sure  by 
accident — the  will  is  so  worded,  that  although,  in 
case  of  OUT  continuing  at  the  Linden  Farm,  the 
stock  and  property  of  every  sort  was  to  remain 
for  my  use,  upon  paying  a  small  annuity  to  my 
mother,  yet,  if  we  removed,  it  appears  that  the 


264  THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 

whole  is  to  be  sold ;  the  money  to  be  invested  in 
three  per  cents,  and  not  to  be  touched  either  by 
her  or  me  until  her  death — neither  of  us  receiv- 
mg  any  benefit  from  this  sum  beyond  the  yearly 
payment  of  her  annuity — which  Heaven  grant 
may  continue  for  many  years  ! " 

"  This  is  new  to  me,  Maurice,  and  strange  as 
well  as  new.     Who  is  the  executor  ?" 

"  Mr.  Stephen  Elliott,  my  uncle." 

"  Humph !  —  your  uncle  ?  Have  you  seen  the 
will  ?  Has  any  lawyer  seen  it  ?  Your  uncle, 
Mr.  Stephen  Elliott,  is  the  executor,  you  say  ? 
Is  the  vnW  in  your  father's  hand-writing  ?  " 

"No,  sir;  in  that  of  Mr.  Ball."     . 

"  The  little  pettifogging  lawyer,  of  Bewley — a 
man  thirty  miles  off —  Stephen  Elliott's  factotum : 
I  thought  so.  Well,  we  must  get  some  one 
learned  in  the  law  to  look  it  over.  Not  to  touch 
the  money  until  after  your  mother's  death !  That 
could  never  have  been  the  design  of  the  testator, 

however  well  it  might  meet  the  views  of . 

This  must  be  looked  to,  Maurice  :   send  me  a 
copy  of  the  will." 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir,"  replied  Maurice, 
firmly ;  "  but,  with  all  gratitude  for  your  kindness, 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  let  the  matter  rest. 
Firmly  as  I  believe  that  my  father  did  not  con- 
template this  state  of  things  —  that  he  never 
dreamt  of  our  leaving  the  Linden  Farm,  it  is 


THE    RUSTIC    TOILET. 


265 


nevertheless  so  set  down ;  and  there  is  something 
in  contesting  the  last  will  of  a  parent  which  I 
cannot  endure.     Besides,  we  shall  do  very  well. 
My  mother  will  have  the  comforts  to  which  :.he 
has  been  accustomed,  if  my  labor  can  provide 
them ;  and  it  will  be  better  for  me  to  be  a  work- 
ing-man.    I  was  getting  to  like  sporting  better 
thin  farming.      PhcEbe  said  so,  sir,  as  well  as 
vou.     But  now  all  that  is  out  of  the  question.     I 
can  work,  as  I  have  proved  to  her;  and,  with  her 
for  a  companion  and  a  reward,  I  shall  be  a  better 
and  a  happier  man  at  the  Moors  than  I  should 
have  been  in  our  old  house,  well  as  1  love  it." 

«  Better  and  happier  perhaps  than  you  might 
have  been,  had  this  not  occurred,"  replied  Colonel 
Lisle,  grasping  his  young  tenant's  hand  with  a 
pressure  full  of  heart ;  "  but  not  better  or  happier 
than  you  will  be  there  now.    The  new  lease  shall 
be  made  out  to-morrow.     Your  uncle,  for  vievvs 
of  his  own,  and  in  revenge  for  your  refusal  of  his 
daughter,  represented  you  to  me  as  dissipated, 
idle^  extravagant,  and  careless  of  all  except  the 
caprice  of  the  hour.     He  even  contrived  to  turn 
your  love  for  Phoebe  into  a  proof  of  the  lowness 
of  your  mind  and  degradation  of  your  habits. 
Under  this  view  I  sent  the  notice,  fully  intending 
however,  especially  after  I  found  that  he  wanted 
the  farm,  to  examine  more  closely  into  the  facts, 
[  ought  to  have  looked  into  the  matter  at  once 
23 


266  THE  rust;-.:  toilet. 

but  I  can  hardly  regret  not  having  done  so,  since 
the  experiment  has  not  only  made  your  character 
better  known  to  me,  but  to  yourself.  And  now 
you  must  introduce  me  to  Phcebe !  There  she 
stands,  looking  at  us; — no!  now  that  she  sees 
that  we  are  looking  at  her,  she  turns  away, 
blushing.  But  that  is  Phcebe  !  —  I  should  know 
'.he  fresh  innocent  smile  among  a  thousand." 

And,  as  a  lover  of  all  justice  —  even  that 
shadowy  justice  called  poetical,  which  is  the 
branch  over  which  we  poor  authors  have  most 
control — I  must  add,  that,  whilst  Phoebe's  smiles 
grew  sweeter  and  sweeter  as  her  blushes  deep- 
ened. Stephen  Elliott,  the  rich  and  purse-proud 
uncle,  who  had  crept  stealthily  within  hearing  of 
the  conversation,  and  felt  himself  detected  and 
defeated,  slunk  away,  hanging  down  his  head, 
pale  with  impotent  malice,  and  muttering  ineffec^ 
tual  curses,  the  most  contemned  and  miserable 
vvretch  of  that  large  assembly 


2(57 


THE  FAREWELL. 

BY    L  .    E  .    L. 

I  DARE  not  look  upon  that  face, 

My  bark  is  in  the  hay, 
Too  much  already  its  soft  grace 

Has  won  from  me  delay. 
A  few  short  hours,  and  I  must  gaze 

On  those  sad  eyes  no  more, 
A  dream  will  seem  the  pleasant  days 

Past  on  this  lonely  shore. 

I  love  thee  not— my  heart  has  cast 

Its  inward  life  away  ; 
The  many  memories  of  the  past 

Leave  little  for  to-day, 
Thou  art  to  me  a  thing  apart 

From  passion,  hope,  or  fear ; 
Yet 't  is  a  pleasure  to  my  heart 

To  know  thou  art  so  dear. 

It  shows  me  I  have  something  left 
Of  what  youth  used  to  be  ; 

The  spirit  is  not  quite  bereft 
That  dreams  of  one  like  thee- 


268  THE    FAREWELL. 

I  know  there  is  another  hour, 

When  I  have  left  this  isle, 
When  there  will  be  but  little  power 

In  thy  forgotten  smile. 

When  other  eyes  may  fling  their  gleams 

Above  my  purple  wine, 
But  little  shall  I  heed  the  dreams 

I  once  could  read  in  thine. 
Yet  not  the  less  soft — gentle — kind— 

Thy  presence  has  renewed 
What  long  I  thought  v/as  left  behind, 

Youth's  glad  but  softened  mood. 

Thy  heart  it  is  untouched  and  pure — 

I  wish  it  not  for  mine ; 
Too  feverish  and  insecure 

Would  be  such  world-worn  shrine 
For  thou  dost  need  such  quiet  home 

As  mi^ht  befit  the  dove 
Where  green  leaves  droop,  and  soft  winds 
come, 

Where  peace  attends  on  love. 

I  doubt  if  I  shall  gaze  again 

Upon  that  tranquil  brow ; 
I  turn  to  yonder  glittering  main, 

Impatient  for  my  prow ; 
Battle  and  revel,  feast  and  fight, 

Spread  o'er  life's  troubled  sea  : 


THE    FAREWELL.  269 

Then  wLere  will  be  the  calm  delight 
That  here  entranceth  me  ? 

"When  other  names  that  are  as  sweet, 

Perhaps  have  been  more  dear, 
Shall  make  gay  midnight  moments  fleet 

Unlike  the  midnights  here. 
When  they  shall  ask  for  pledge  or  song, 

I  shall  not  name  thy  name  ; 
Far  other  thoughts  to  them  belong 

Than  at  thy  charming  came. 

Thy  pensive  influence  only  brought 

The  dreams  of  early  years, 
What      childhood     felt — what      childhoo(^ 
thought — 

Its  tenderness — its  tears' 
Farewell !  the  wind  sets  from  the  shore, 

The  white  foam  lights  the  sea, 
If  heaven  one  blessing  have  in  store, 

That  blessing  light  on  thee  ' 
23* 


270 


THE  WIDOW'S   DAUGHTER. 

BY      ELIZA      WALKER. 

"  Time,  faith,  and  energy,  are  the  three  friends  God  haa 

given  the  poor." 

Bulwer's  Night  and  Morning. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  the  busying  month 
of  April ;  but,  though  early  in  the  spring,  the 
weather  was  bright  and  bracing — one  of  those 
days  which,  from  their  clear,  delicious  freshness, 
give  added  buoyancy  to  the  step,  strength  and 
elasticity  to  the  spirit —  when  the  boon  of  mere 
existence  is  felt  as  a  joy  and  blessing,  and  the 
heart,  forgetting  the  shadows  which  past  grief  or 
impending  calamity  fling  over  it,  breathes  un- 
mixed aspirations  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  to 
the  Author  of  all  good  !  How  appropriate,  then, 
was  a  day  like  this  for  the  long-projected /e^e  at 
Morton  Grange  !  What  was  it  commemorative 
of?  Were  the  nuptials  of  the  young  and  lovely 
the  event  celebrated?  The  birth  or  majority  of 
an  heir  recorded  thus  by  joy  and  festivity  ?  It 
was  neither  of  these  occasions  which  collected  all 

the  elite  of shire  into  one  focus.     It  was  to 

mark  the  recovery  from  long  and  dangerous  ill- 
ness of  Eva,  the  only  child  of  the  pr^ud  and 


THE  widow's  daughter.  271 

pompous  o^vner  of  Morton  Grange  — a  young, 
still  feeble,  ailing  girl  of  fifteen.     The  successive 
deaths  of    five  other  children,  the  long  period 
v/hich  intervened  between  the  demise  of  the  last 
:f  these  and  the  birth  of  little  Eva,  had  made  her 
to  her  parents  an  object,  it  might  be  said,  almost 
of  idolatry.      Such  affluence  of  love  was  scattered 
over  her  path,  so  fenced  in  was  she  by  the  eager, 
watchful  care  of  parental  affection  from  the  com- 
mon casualties  of  peril  and  danger,  that  when, 
despite  the  vigilance  exercised,  disease  struck  her 
down,  and  the  glad  laugh  was  exchanged  for  the 
low  wail  of  anguish,  the  bright  glance  dimmed 
by  the   films  of  sickness,  the  appaUed  parents 
started  as  from  a  dream.     What,  then,  was  she, 
the  only  and  beloved,  whom  they  had  so  cherished 
and   caressed,  hurrying,  like   their   other   little 
ones,  to  the  dreary  grave  ?     There  was  agony 
almost   to    madness    in    the   thought.     All   that 
consummate  medical  skill  could  effect  was  ren- 
dered ;  all  that  ceaseless,  unremitting  attention 
accomplish,  offbred.     Heaven  was  besought  with 
earnest,  supphcating  importunity,  to  spare  their 
treasure  ;  and  Heaven  listened  to  their  prayers  ! 
The  fever  of  delirium  faded  away,  and  the  thin 
hand   pressed     once   more     in    recognition    the 
mother  s  fervent  clasp  ;  the  pale  lip  ^vreathed  into 
a  .faint  smile  on  the  fond  father,  who  bent  brf.ath- 
le'ssly  watching  each  varying  turn   of  the  ashy 


272  THE  widow's  daughter. 

face.     Eva  was  pronounced  out  of  danger;  con- 
valescence  rapidly   followed;  and   when   entire 
recovery  was  established,  every  friend  on  their 
visiting  list  was  eagerly  bid  to  share  in  the  exube- 
rant joy  which  filled  the  whole   household  of 
Morton  Grange,  from  its  imperious  master  to  its 
humblest   retainer.     And    was    Eva  worthy    of 
this  prodigality  of  love  ?     In  truth  she  was.    Not 
only  did  her  facd  and  figure  give  promise  of  sin- 
gular and  exquisite  loveliness  —  not  only  in  the 
large  deep-blue  eye,  whose  dark  lashes  swept  a 
cheek  round  and  fair  as  sculptured  marble  —  not 
only  in  the  black  shining  ringlets  which  clustered 
round  that  cherub  face,  were  there  beauty  and 
expression  ;  but  in  every  modulation  of  the  low, 
sweet  voice  ;  every  movement  of  the  small  rosy 
mouth  told  of  the  mind  that  dwelt  within,  of  the 
warmth  and   sensibility  of  the  heart  beating  in 
her  young  bosom.     If  ever  there  was  a  nature 
from  which  every  taint  of  selfishness,  that  poi- 
soner and  corrupter  of  human  motives  and  actions, 
was  banished — if  ever  one  utterly  exempt  from 
that  cold,  calculating  worldly  wisdom  which,  fet- 
tering the  nobler  and  more  generous  impulses, 
shapes  each  deed  in  accordance  only  with  hard 
systematic  policy,  it  was   that  of  Eva  Morton ; 
sensitive,  truthful,  trustful,  with  the  ready  tear 
for  any  suflTering,  the  open  hand  for  every  distress, 
the  radiant  smile  for  others'  joy,  the  keen  syp- 


THE  widow's  daughter.  273 

pathy  for  humanity  in  all  its  varied  aspects,  from 
lier  parents,  to  her  the  first  objects  in  creation, 
down  to  the  bird  and  dog  which  fed  from  her 
hand,  to  the  smallest  insect  which  crawled  in  her 
path,  the  loveliness  of  her  nature  was  developed 
and  exhibited.  The  voice  of  harshness,  the  tone 
of  reproof,  never  yet  had  met  her  ear.  When 
she  should  be  doomed  to  listen  to  these,  how 
would  her  soft,  but  vivid  and  kindling  tempera- 
ment bear  the  bitter  novelty  ! 

The/e^e  at  Morton  Grange  was  in  no  respects 
dissimilar  to  the  thousands  that  have  gone  before 
it,  or  the  thousands  by  which  it  will  be  succeeded. 
The  appointments  where  the  outlay  of  money  is 
the  last  point  considered,  and  over  vv^hich  exqui- 
site taste    presides   to  direct  and  design,   could 
scarcely  fail  to  be  good.     Under  the  superinten- 
dence of  Mrs.  Morton  they  were  perfect ;  for  in 
all  matters  appertaining  to   dress  or  decoration, 
whether  persons,  rooms,  or  gardens,  were  to  be 
em.bellished,  that  lady's  artisHcal  skill  was  equally 
displayed,  and  was  ever  unimpeachable  and  fault- 
less.    On    this   occasion,   when   her   heart    was 
filled  to  overflowing  with  rapture  and  thankful- 
ness, there  was  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  tasking 
ingenuity  to  its  extremest  limit  in  manifesting,  by 
every  outward  symbol  of  splendor  and  gaiety,  the 
feelings  which  possessed  her.     The  resuk  was 
quite  satisfactory,  even  to  her  fastidious  eyes,  and 


274  THE  widow's  daughter. 

those  of  the  five  hundred  guests,  partakers  of  the 
festivity.  Among  these  there  were  none  pecu- 
liarly noticeable.  There  was  the  usual  amount 
of  match-making  mammas,  prett;y  marriageable 
daughters,  and  handsome  well-dressed  men,  on 
whom  to  practise  the  authorized  artillery  of 
smiles  and  glances ;  much  rivalry,  much  scandal 
—  for,  alas  I  in  this  country,  even  when  "  tw  or 
three  only  are  gathered  together,"  never  is  this 
most  odious  accessory  banished ;  much  make-be- 
lieve love-making  and  a  little  true  ;  divers  well- 
bred  and  appropriate  compliments  to  the  lady  of 
the  house  ;  and  a  superabundance  of  caresses 
and  flattery  to  the  litde  invalid,  the  heroine  of 
the  day ;  with  many  speculative  guesses  as  to 
what  would  be  the  probable  amount  of  her  for- 
tune at  the  death  of  her  father.  Nor  was  it  only 
the  wealthy  and  influential  who  were  called  to 
eat  the  "  fatted  calf,"  to  rejoice  at  the  preservation 
and  recovery  of  Eva.  Every  tenant,  every  cot- 
tag-er  on  Mr.  Morton's  estate,  whether  totterinir 
with  age  or  helpless  through  infancy,  were  invi- 
ted to  participate  in  the  general  demonstration  of 
delight  and  pleasure.  But  to  Eva  nothing  gave 
so  sweet  a  joy  as  receiving  from  the  children  of 
her  own  Sunday  school  their  small  offering  of 
fragrant  flowers,  and  rendering  in  return  some 
pretty  gift  or  toy. 

But    time     still   leaps    onwards    to   eternity! 


THE    AVIDOW'S    DAUGHTER.  270 

Whether  the  hours  he  chronicled  by  the  dial  of 
joy  or  despair,  unnoted,  or  bitterly,  wearily 
counted,  pass  they  must ! 

The  fete  ended  amidst  bonfires  blazing,  music 
pealing,  and  fireworks  glittering.  The  guests 
retired  to  their  respective  homes;  some  with 
heartaches,  which  the  next  morning's  sun  should 
chase  away  ;  others,  it  may  be,  with  impressions 
of  a  deeper,  perhaps  indelible,  character.  As  if  to 
mock  at  the  instability  of  all  human  pleasure,  and 
show  to  the  proud  and  exulting  ho^v  slender  is 
the  barrier  which  divides  happiness  from  misery, 
and  that  "  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death," 
when  the  next  sun  shone  upon  Morton  Grange 
it  dawned  upon  a  heap  of  smoking  ruins! 
Whether  the  fire  which,  in  a  few  short  hours, 
laid  the  stately  fabric  in  dust  and  ashes,  was  the 
result  of  carelessness  or  the  work  of  an  incen- 
diary, was  never  clearly  demonstrated.  Destruc- 
tion, total  and  complete,  was  the  consequence, 
whether  accident  or  design  had  been  the  origi- 
nating cause.  Whilst  every  inmate  was  buried 
in  profound  slumbers,  overcome  by  the  fatigues 
of  the  preceding .  night,  they  were  roused  to 
consciousness  by  the  fearful  announcement  that 
a  portion  of  the  house  was  in  flames. 

A  young  officer,  on  a  visit  to  the  rector  of  the 
village,  who  had  risen  early  in  order  to  reach  the 
first  railway  train  which  should  convey  him  to 


276  THE    T\aDOW's    DAUGHTER. 

London,  from  whence  he  was  to  embark  with  his 
regiment  for  the  East,  was  the  first  person  who 
g-ave  to  the  horrified  inhabitants  announcemeist 
of  the  peril  which  surrounded  them.  The  wind, 
which  howled  in  terrific  gusts,  assisted  the  work 
of  devastation,  and  they  had  barely  time  to  escape 
with  their  lives,  ere  the  noble  mansion  was 
blazing  in  every  part.  And  Eva,  where  was 
she  ?  The  tidings  of  her  danger  sufficed  to  fling 
her  instantly  into  total  insensibility.  Her  parents, 
wild  yet  helpless,  through  excessive  fear,  rent  the 
air  With  their  screams ;  but  the  very  abundance 
of  their  agony  seemed  to  render  them  impotent 
to  direct,  powerless  to  save.  The  domestics,  in- 
tent on  self-preservation,  obeyed  its  instinctive 
impulse,  and  sought  but  their  own  safety.  And 
she,  the  beautiful  and  beloved,  might  in  a  few 
moments  have  been  a  blackened  corpse,  but  for 
the  heroic  exertions  of  Cyril  Vernon,  (the  young 
officer  before  alluded  to,)  who,  on  hearing  that 
she  was  yet  in  the  house,  only  waited  to  ascertain 
the  situation  of  her  chamber,  and,  regardless  of  the 
flames  which  were  gathering  around  him,  rushed 
to  the  apartment  where  the  gentle  cliild  lay  lifeless 
and  motionless,  snatched  her  in  his  arms,  covered 
her  carefully  with  his  cloak,  and  succeeded,  despite 
the  imminent  peril  which  threatened  both,  in 
placing  her,  unharmed,  unscathed,  in  her  weep' 
ing  mother's  caressing  arms. 


THE  widow's  datjghtek.  277 

Time  would  not  permit  the  intrepid  Cyril  to 
wait  to  receive  the  fervent  blessings  poured  on 
his  head ;  he  had  only  a  moment  to  breathe  a 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  to  his  Maker,  who  had 
preserved  him  and  made  him  instrumental  in 
saving  the  precious  young  life  of  Eva;  and,  ere 
she  had  unclosed  her  eyes  to  consciousness,  he 
was  again  on  his  route. 

Morton  Grange,  then,  existed  no  longer,  and  it 
was  the  commencement  of  a  train  of  successive 
casualties  and    evils,  which   ultimately  plunged 
the  family  in  sorrow,  poverty,  and  ruin.     A  few 
days  only  subsequent  to  the  conflagration  of  his 
house,  Mr.  Morton  was  called  on  to  bear  a  yet 
more  heavy  calamity.     Engaged  to  an  enormous 
extent  in  speculation  in  the  funds,  he  accepted  the 
success  which  had  hitherto  attended  his  schemes 
as  an  augury  and  earnest  of  its  perpetuity ;  but 
the    tide  of  fortune,  as  is  frequently  the  case, 
ebbed  suddenly  and  ceaselessly.     Political  events 
darkened   and    convulsed   the    horizon    of    the 
"  money  market ;"  a  rapid  and  ruinous  fall  in  the 
funds   was   the    consequence,   and    the   hapless 
Morton  found  himself  not  only  beggared  but  in- 
volved in  liabilities  to  the  amount  of  thousands, 
which  not  the  m.ortgage  of  every  acre  he  pos- 
sessed, not  even  the  sale  of  the  family  jewels  and 
plate,  would  avail  to  discharge.     Maddened,  des- 
perate, cowardly,  he  staggered  beneath  the  new 
24 


278  THE  widow's  daughter. 

and  overwhelming  evils  which  met  him  on  every 
side,  and,  instead  of  waiting  for  the  helpful,  heal- 
ing aid  of  the  "  time,  faith,  energy,"  which  one  of 
our  first  living  writers  has  so  exquisitely  denomi- 
nated as  "  the  three  friends  God  has  given  to  the 
poor,"  put  a  pistol  to  his  head ,  and  became  a  suicide ! 
The  brief  limits  of  a  tale  forbid  us  to  follow 
step  by  step  the  declining  fortunes  of  the  devoted 
family  of  Morton.  The  widow  and  her  daughter 
found  —  as,  alas!  to  the  discredit  of  human  nature, 
experience  has  ever  proved — that  the  summer 
friends  of  prosperity  fly  with  the  first  indication 
of  penury's  wintry  chills.  They  gathered  toge- 
ther the  small  remnant  of  property,  which,  after 
the  payment  of  all  debts,  yielded  but  a  poor  pit- 
tance indeed  :  and,  leaving  the  scene  of  their 
former  splendor  forever,  proceeded  to  London. 
They  entered  the  vast  metropolis  of  the  world,  as 
hundreds  do  daily,  without  aim,  resources,  or 
friends  !  It  was  now,  and  ever  since  the  shadows 
of  adversity  had  encompassed  them,  that  all  the 
beautiful  points  in  Eva's  character  more  promi- 
nently developed  themselves.  Though  but  a 
child  still,  such  events  seemed  to  have  forced  into 
sudden  and  perfect  maturity  the  wisdom  and  in- 
telligence of  ripened  years.  She  saw  her  mother, 
weak  in  nature,  even  in  .affluence,  now  absolutely 
helpless  in  grief  and  indigence,  with  only  tears 
and  sighs,  and  useless  lamentations,  to  meet  the 


THE  widow's  daughter.  279 

evils  which  surrounded  them,  succumbing  feebly 
to  the  accidents  of  the  moment,  without  purpose 
and  exertion  for  the  present,  or  faith  and  confidence 
for  tlie  future.     To  add  to  their  already  "  huge 
calamities,"    an   attack  of  rheumatic   fever  laid 
Mrs.  Morton   on  a  sick  bed,  and  deprived  her 
'emporarilv  of  the  use  of  her  limbs  ;  and  thus  was 
she  made  doubly  dependent  on  the  energies  and 
capabilities  of  her  youthful  daughter  for  support. 
They   had    established    themselves   in   a   small 
lodging  in  Somers  Town,  as  a  cheap  and  obscure 
locality  ;  but,   though  the   rooms  they  tenanted 
were  meanly  and  scantily  furnished,  and  at  a  low 
rent,  yet  how  were  the  swiftly  recurring  weekly 
payments  to  be  met,  with  all  the  other  incidental 
expenses  ?     Of  the  money  they  had  brought  from 
the  country,  a  large  part  had  been  consumed  by 
tlie   long  illness  of  Mrs.  Morton.     To  the  few 
feminine  occupations  which  in  this  country  give 
bread  (how  often  little  else !)   to   those  who  re- 
quire and  seek  it,  Eva's  tender  age  presented  an 
insuperable  barrier.     Who  would  take  a  child  of 
scarcely   sixteen    as    teacher   and   instructress  ? 
Her  surpassing  beauty,  also,  would  have  retarded 
rather   than  have  advanced   the    probability  of 
meeting  with  an  engagement  of  the  kind,  even 
had  her  years  qualified  her  for  the  task. 

The    construction   of    fancy  articles    for    the 
oazaars,  after  days  and  nights  of  ceaseless  rumi- 


280  THE  ^VlD0^v's  dattgiiter. 

nation  to  poor  Eva,  was  the  only  medium  thai 
suggested  itself  to  provide  a  roof  and  maintenance 
for  her  afflicted  mother  and  self.  In  the  scorch- 
ing heat,  the  wintry  snow,  was  the  once  pampered 
and  delicate  child  of  luxury  and  pomp  compelled 
to  traverse  the  streets,  to  procure  implements  for 
her  work  and  purchasers  for  it  when  completed. 
She  who  had  commanded  wherever  she  moved, 
liad  now  to  sue  for  direction  and  employment 
from  the  hard,  the  ignorant,  and  the  coarse- 
minded.  But  she  repined  not  if  success  were  the 
reward  of  her  endeavors  and  labors,  and  they 
procured  —  the  dearest  boon  !  —  the  means  to  pur- 
chase some  coveted  dainty  for  her  sick  and 
querulous,  but  fondly  loved  mother.  For  herself, 
she  cared  nothing;  her  fare  the  scantiest,  her 
dress  the  simplest,  toiling  from  the  early  dawn 
to  the  midnight  chime,  yet  no  repining  word,  no 
fretful  murmur,  ever  escaped  her  lip :  she  con- 
fided in  Him  who  "  cares  for  the  fatherless,"  and 
trusted  at  His  own  good  time  the  "  three  friends 
he  has  given  to  the  poor"  would  effect  her  deliv- 
erance from  the  bitter  thraldom  of  poverty. 
But,  alas !  incessant  labor,  broken  rest,  exposure 
to  all  weathers,  worked  their  effect  upon  the  deli- 
cate frame  of  Eva  Morton  ;  day  by  day  her  step 
became  feebler,  her  eye  more  dim  :  still  the  same 
amount  of  Vv-ork  must  be  completed,  or  they  would 
fall  into  arrear.     Hardly  could  she  drag  her  tot- 


THE  widow's  daughter.  281 

tering  steps  to  bazaars  and  shops,  where  she 
disposed  of  her  pretty  merchandise.  But  she 
did.  The  mighty  force  of  will,  the  strong  sus- 
taining impetus  of  a  holy  duty,  combated  with 
physical  weakness,  and  gave  her  the  power  to  do, 
when  thousands,  beneath  the  paralyzing  influence 
of  health  so  shattered,  would  have  sunk  in  help- 
less and  prostrate  despair. 

It  was  after  a  morning  more  than  usually  har- 
assing, when  weary  hours  had  been  spent 
profitlessly  in  endeavoring  to  dispose  of  her 
little  wares,  that  Eva,  on  her  homeward  path, 
took  her  route  through  the  Regent's  Park,  hoping 
that  the  fresh  clear  breezes  from  the  Highgate 
hills  might,  at  least  temporarily,  brace  her.  It 
was  the  height  of  the  London  season,  when,  at 
certain  hours,  all  the  Parks  present  so  gay  and 
animated  an  appearance. 

The  bright  sunshine,  the  glittering  equipages, 
the  smilino:  faces,  all  were  in  sad  contrast  with 
the  pale-faced,  sorrowful  girl,  who  was  crawling, 
rather  than  walking,  along  the  broad  thronged 
path.  A  nursery  maid  with  two  children,  one  an 
infant  in  arms,  the  other  a  beautiful  boy  of  three 
j'-ears  of  age,  were  amongst  the  pedestrians.  The 
baby  dropped  the  toy  it  held  in  its  tiny  hand ; 
the  servant  stooped  to  recover  it,  and  at  the  same 
instant,  the  boy,  in  pursuit  of  an  Italian  grey 
hound  which  accompanied  them,  rushed  into  the 
24^^ 


282  THE    W1D0W*S    DAUGHTER. 

midst  of  the  drive  where  the  carriages  were  roll 
ing  carelessly  along ;  another  minute  and  the 
child  would  have  been  crushed  under  the  wheels 
of  a  britscha,  when  Eva,  who  saw  the  boy's 
imminent  danger,  at  the  risk  of  her  own  life,  and 
with  a  strength  which,  in  her  debilitated  state, 
was  almost  superhuman,  dragged  it  from  the 
road.  But,  in  her  efforts  to  avert  mischief  from 
the  child  she  herself  received  a  blow  from  the 
pole  of  the  carriage,  and  she  had  scarcely  placed 
him  unharmed  on  the  footpath  ere  she  fell  bleed- 
ing and  senseless  on  the  ground.  To  summon 
the  carriage  of  the  grandmother  of  the  boy,  which 
was  a  little  way  in  advance,  explain  the  nature 
of  the  accident,  lift  the  lifeless  Eva  into  the 
vehicle,  and  convey  her  to  the  nearest  surgeon's, 
were  events  that  followed  in  instant  succession. 
The  injuries  she  had  received  were  found  to  be 
on  examination  of  a  trifling  nature.  She  was 
driven  to  her  humble  lodging,  promising  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Leslie,  the  relative  of  the  child,  as  soon 
as  she  was  sufficiently  recovered,  and  receive 
again  and  again  her  grateful  thanks.  But  weeks 
passed  ere  Eva  could  do  this,  —  a  long  and  severe 
illness  followed  the  event  narrated  above.  Not 
uncheered,  not  unsolaced,  however,  was  her  sick 
bed ;  Mrs.  Leslie,  ascertaining  the  straitened 
circumstances  of  the  being  who  had  saved  her 
idolized  grandchild  from  death,  provided  ever^ 


THE  widow's  daughter.  283 

appliance  and   accessory  which   generosity  and 
wealth  could  supply  to  mitigate  and  relieve  the 
sufferings  of  Eva.     Finding,  on  a  near  and  con- 
stant intercourse  with  her,  the  beautiful  piety  her 
character  exliibited,  she  offered,  on  her  recovery, 
a  permanent  asylum  to  herself  and  mother  in  her 
house  in  Curzon  Street.     And  when  the  period 
of  convalescence  arrived  the  offer  was  accepted, 
Eva  becoming  the  instructress  of  young  Arthur. 
The  mother  of  the  boy  (xMrs.  Leslie's  only  daugh- 
ter) had  died  in  giving  birth  to  an  infant,  now 
only  a. few  months  old;  his  father  was  with  the 
army  in   India,   and  the   whole   charge   of  the 
children  devolved  on  Mrs.  Leslie,  whose  love  and 
wealth  made  her  qualified  for  the  task,  but  who 
labored    under   the   affliction  of  total  blindness. 
It  was,  therefore,  with  joy  she  found  one  so  com- 
petent, so  gentle,  so   accomplished,  as  Eva,  to 
associate  with  her  in  the"  care  of  the  children 
committed  to  her  charge.     And  in  another  way 
also  was  Eva  able  to  minister  to  her  gratification. 
Gifted  with  a  voice  of  exquisite  beauty,  music 
with  Eva  in  her  palmy  days  had  been  joy,  almost 
passion ;  so  was  it  also  with  Mrs.  Leslie,   and 
lieing  incapacitated  by  her  infirmity  from  indulg- 
ing other  sources  of  pleasure,  she  leaned  on  this 
one  for  solace  and  amusement.     To  listen  to  the 
songs  she  had  loved  in  early  youth,  breathed  by 
the  sweet  and  birdlike  voice  of  Eva,  was  a  source 


2S4  THE  widow's   daughter. 

of  intense  and  unfailing  delight.  Perhaps  in  the 
locality  of  Mayfair  no  house  possessed  a  circle 
where  the  in. nates  amalgamated  better  together, 
or  were  more  tranquilly  happy,  than  were 
gathered  under  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Leslie  in  Curzon 
Street.  The  disposition  of  Eva,  serene,  hopeful, 
unshaken  in  adversity,  when  the  shadows  had 
faded  which  once  darkened  her  path,  resumed 
the  buoyancy  and  radiance  which  distinguished 
it  in  early  youth.  Hers  was  the  temperament 
which  not  only  is  a  boon  to  its  possessor,  but  dif- 
fuses over  a  whole  household  its  beneficent  and 
genial  power.  Whether  romping  with  the  chil- 
dren, singing  to  her  old  blind  benefactress,  or 
combatting  with  loving  words  and  sunny  smiles 
the  peevishness  of  her  mother,  she  was  equally 
at  home,  equally  resistless.  But  there  was  soon 
another  being  on  whose  destiny  she  should  exert 
a  mighty  and  abiding- influence  —  Captain  Stew- 
art, the  father  of  the  children,  arrived  from  India. 
"  Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction."  He  that  has 
proved — and  where  is  he  who  has  not?  —  that 
our  common,  every-day  life  is  characterized  by 
passages  of  such  romance  that  the  novelist  would 
scarcely  dare  invent,  will  not  marvel  that  in  Cap- 
tain Stewart  Eva  identified  the  heroic  Cyril 
Vernon  who  bore  her  in  his  arms  from  Morton 
Grange  on  the  night  of  the  conflagration.  For 
the  life  he  then  saved  she  had  almost  an  equiva- 


THE   widow's   daughter.  285 

ent  debt  of  gratitude  to  place  to  his  accouni. 
His  first-born,  now  in  all  the  pride  and  beauty  of 
healthy  boyhood,  had  escaped  an  abrupt  and 
painful  death  through  her  intrepidity.  And  so 
it  ii  :  retribution  and  reward,  even  in  this  world, 
are  dealt  out  to  us  according  to  the  deeds  we  have 
wrought  far  more  evenly  than  many  admit. 
Captain  Stewart,  on  the  death  of  a  bachelor-uncle 
in  India,  had  succeeded  to  his  property,  and 
assumed  with  it  the  name  of  his  relative. 

The  reader  will  guess  the  sequel.  Captain 
Stewart,  after  being  domesticated  under  the  same 
roof  with  Eva,  soon  found  that  his  riches  would 
avail  little  as  ministrant  to  his  happiness,  unless 
shared  with  the  gentle  Eva.  Fortunately  she 
reciprocated  his  feelings,  and  the  bright  and 
blissful  courtship  of  a  few  months  was  ratified  at 
the  altar  of  St.  George,  Hanover  Square. 

Eva  Stewart,  while  basking  in  the  light  of  un- 
dimmed  prosperity,  never  forgot  the  deep  and 
solemn  lesson  she  had  acquired  while  treading 
the  thorny  path  of  poverty  and  sorrow, — that 
"  her  feet  had  well-nigh  stumbled,"  that  she 
would  have  been  overborne  by  despair,  had  she 
not  remembered  and  confided  in  the  promise,  that 
''  time,  faith,  and  energy,  are  the  three  friends 
God  has  given  to  the  poor." 


286 


THE   SILENT  TOAST. 

BY     ALARIC     A.    WATTS. 

Health  to  one  whose  cherished  name 

'T  were  a  mockery  here  to  tell ! 
Jocund  friends,  forbear  to  blame 

If  I  keep  my  secret  well ! 
Not  when  revelry  grows  loud, 

And  the  jest  and  song  abound,  — - 
To  a  holier  worship  vowed, — 

Would  I  whisper  such  a  sound ! 

'T  is  not  incense  offered  to  her, 

In  my  hours  of  heartless  mirth , 
But  a  homage  deeper,  truer, 

That  doth  best  beseem  her  worth. 
Yet  the  toast  I  will  not  pass;  — 

In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  '11  think  it : 
Fill  me,  then,  a  brimming  gIa3F, 

And  to  HER  I  LOVE  I  '11  drink  it ' 


287 


THE  DEAD  WATCH. 

A   LEGEND    OF   FRANKFORT. 

BY    ELIZABETH     Y O U A T T • 


"No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more  ! 

The  hour  of  dream  is  o'er, 
And  troubles  of  the  world  bloom  out  anew ; 

But  youth  — and  sunny  day  — 

And  beauty  —  where  are  they  ? 
The  earth  has  lost  its  green,  —  the  sky  its  blue  I " 

Babbt  Cornwall, 


It  was  late  one  summer  evening  when  an 
English  family  arrived  at  Frankfort,  and  took  up 
their  aBode  at  the  principal  hotel.  It  consisted 
of  a  father  and  two  daughters,  accompanied  by 
the  betrothed  of  the  eldest,— one  Frank  Ken- 
nedy, whose  merry  voice  and  laughing  eyes  won 
golden  opinions  from  both  high  and  low.  Alto- 
gether they  seemed  a  very  happy  group,  and  had 
certainly  everything  to  make  them  so.  Mr. 
Allen  was  a  rich  city  merchant,  well  to  do  in  the 
world,  as  the  phrase  is,  and  proud  only  that  he 
had  been  founder  of  his  own  fortunes  ;  and  his 
daughters  handsome,  well  educated  girls,  with 
spirits  untouched  by  care,  and  all  the  hopefulness 


288  THE    DEAD    WATCH. 

of  an  untroubled  youth  fresh  about  them.  There 
was  nothing  romantic  in  the  history  of  the  lovers ; 
they  had  met  first  at  a  ball,  where  Mr.  Kennedy  was 
struck  with  Gertrude's  beauty,  and  she  amusevl 
by  his  lively  remarks  and  somewhat  proud  of 
attentions  which  others  envied.  It  was  a  bright 
evening,  nevertheless,  and  such  a  one  as  haunts 
us  for  years  afterwards  like  a  dream,  —  but  theirs 
was  realized.  Frank  asked  leave  to  call  the  fol- 
lowing  day,  when  he  found  the  idol  of  the  ball- 
room was  likewise  the  presiding  spirit  of  her 
cheerful  home.  He  marked  how  proud  her  father 
was,  and  how  her  young  sister  loved  her,  and 
after  a  time  it  seemed  but  natural  that  he  should 
love  her  too,  with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  and  that 
Gertrude,  when  he  told  her  so,  should  believe 
Him  with  the  ready  faith  of  woman. 

rrank  Kennedy  already  knew  something  of 
mercantile  pursuits,  and  with  a  desire,  probably, 
of  pleasing  his  intended  father-in-law,  professed 
a  wish  to  learn  more,  offering  to  place,  as  an 
earnest  of  his  sincerity,  one  half  of  his  princely 
FDrtune  in  the  concern,  on  which  account  they 
had  found  it  necessary  to  visit  Frankfort,  where 
the  greater  part  of  Mr.  Allen's  connection  lay, 
who  was  far  too  indulgent  a  parent  to  refuse  his 
daughters  such  an  opportunity  of  seeing  some- 
thing of  a  country  which  they  might  ^ever  visit 
again ;    and  it  was   agreed    that   the    marriage 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  289 

should  be  celebrated  immediately  on  their  return, 
in  the  presence  of  the  mutual  friends  of  both 
parties. 

Most  of  the  principal  families  to  whom  they 
had  introductions,  received  our  travellers  with  the 
true  German  spirit  of  hospitality,  and  they  were 
everywhere  feUd  and  caressed  to  their  hearts' 
content;  but  the  lovers,  as  was  only  natural,  in- 
finitely preferred  a  quiet  walk  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  city ;  on  which  occasions  the  younger  sister 
Margaret,  merely,  as  she  assured  Gertrude,  to 
avoid  making  a  third,  was  vvont  to  accept  the 
escort  of  a  certain  young  German  doctor,  with  an 
unpronounceable  name,  and  a  pair  of  exquisite 
mustaches,  whom  she  had  overheard  one  night 
at  a  party,  or  her  imperfect  knowledge  of  the 
language  deceived  her,  express  his  astonishment 
at  Mr.  Kennedy's  want  of  taste  in  preferring  the 
elder  to  the  younger  sister.  However  this  might 
be,  the  lovers  were  well  content  with  the  arrange- 
ment, and  they  visited  in  this  manner  most  of  the 
principal  lions  of  Frankfort. 

Our  travellers  were  much  struck  with  the  sin- 
gular contrast  presented  by  the  mingling  of  the 
old  and  new  town,  the  narrow  streets  and  quaint 
wooden  buildings  of  the  former  appearing  half 
lost,  as  It  were,  beneath  the  shadow  of  mighty 
domes  and  palaces  everywhere  springing  up.  A 
fresh  creation  destined,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
25 


290  TIIE    DEAD    WATCH. 

years,  to  ^weep  away  all  traces  -  of  the  past 
They  likewise  visited  the  Romerburg,  and  Cathe- 
dral ;  stood  spell-bound  before  the  house  in 
which  that  immortal  poet  was  born  who  dreamed 
of  "  Faust,"  and  which  is  still  pointed  out  in  the 
Hirsch'graben,  distinguished  only  by  his  father's 
coat  of  arms  yet  remaining  over  the  door,  bear- 
ing, by  a  curious  coincidence,  the  poetical  device 
of  three  lyres. 

"You  know  Goethe,  then?"  whispered  the 
German  doctor,  as  he  gazed  upon  Margaret's  elo- 
quent face.  He  meant  his  poems,  for  the  poet 
liimself  had  been  dead  many  years. 

"  I  have  seen  translations  of  him,"  replied  the 
girl,  timidly. 

"  Ah  !  we  tried  to  translate  Shakspeare ;  since 
then  I  have  read  his  works  in  English.  To 
know  Goethe  one  must  learn  German." 

Margaret,  all  enthusiasm,  was  quite  anxious  to 
do  so ;  and  under  cover  of  that  illustrious  name, 
they  walked,  talked,  studied,  and  even  wrote  to 
each  other,  exercises  of  course,  which  had  to  be 
corrected  and  returned  with  due  punctuality.  So 
much  for  their  visit  to  the  Hirsch-graben. 

"  Shall  you  want  Frank  to-day,  papa?"  asked 
Gertrude,  one  bright  morning. 

"  No,  no,  my  children  ;  amuse  yourselves  after 
your  own  fashion."     And  the  old  man  looked 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  291 

round  on  their  happy  faces  with  a  pleased  smile, 
and  wished  it  might  always  be  so. 

Their  rambles  that  day  were,  if  possible,  pleas- 
anter  even  than  usual;  the  air  seemed  so  soft  and 
sunny,  the  heavens  so  blue,  and  the  grass,  where 
they  did  get  a  peep  of  it,  so  green,  just  as  it 
always  does  to  the  young  e'er  the  shadow  of  their 
own  saddened  spirit  passes  forever  over  earth 
and  sky  :  when  we  mourn  for  the  departed  glo- 
ries of  our  youth,  for  the  change  that  has  come 
upon  all  living  things  since  then.  Alas  !  it  is 
ourselves  only  who  alter. 

As  is  the  custom  in  most  German  towns,  the 
door  leading  to  one  of  the  principal  cemeteries 
stood  invitingly  open,  and  our  party  in  careless 
and  merry  mood,  strolled  laughingly  in;  but 
their  merriment  was  presently  hushed  by  the 
sweet  solemnity  of  the  scene  and  hour.  There 
was  nothing  striking  in  the  somewhat  primitive 
aspect  of  the  place.  No  costly  monument  usurp- 
ing room  which  could  be  ill  spared,  and  keeping 
up  the  distinction  of  rank  and  power  even  in 
death.  No  picturesque  mounds,  and  flower- 
covered  bases,  such  as  we  meet  with  in  sunny 
France.  Here  and  there,  indeed,  was  a  sm.all 
bouquet  of  flowers  not  yet  withered,  or  a  basin  of 
holy  water  standing  beside  a  green  hillock,  the 
grass  upon  which  was  worn  away  in  many  places, 
'vhere  the  mourner  had  knelt  and  wept  in  vain 


292  THE    DEAD    WATCH. 

agony  for  the  unforgotten !  Or  a  sword  or  he! 
met  marking  out  the  soldier's  grave.  Every- 
where might  be  seen  crosses,  gravestones,  and 
mounds  of  earth,  crowding  thickly  together,  the 
dead  leaving  little  space  for  the  living.  While 
[)ere  and  there  the  desolate  appearance  of  the 
place  was  relieved  by  a  few  ancient-looking  trees, 
which  bent  down  their  hoary  heads,  and  seemed 
whispering  among  themselves,  wondering  per- 
haps whose  turn  would  come  next,  for  Karl 
Holzenhiiuser  told  our  travellers  that,  one  by  one, 
as  room  was  wanted,  they  were  hewn  down  and 
burned. 

Gertrude  sat  down  beside  a  raised  mound,  the 
chaplet  of  flowers  upon  which  was  as  though  but 
newly  wreathed,  and  vrondered  whether  its  inmate 
had  died  young,  or  had  loved  ?  and  if  so,  knowing 
no  more,  could  have  pitied  that  inmate  from  her 
very  heart. 

The  German  sighed. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  he,  "  it  was  here  that  I  heard  those 
very  words  before,  and  from  one  almost  as  fair 
A  twelvemonth  afterwards  and  she  envied,  but 
had  ceased  to  pity,  the  early  taken." 

©ertrude  shuddered  as  thoui^h  she  listened  t( 
a  prophecy. 

"  She  of  whom  I  speak,"  continued  the  doctor 
replacing  Margaret's  arm,  which  she  had  with 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  293 

drawn,  slie  knew  not  why,  gently  within  his, 
"  was  my  sister." 

"  And  wherefore  had  life  become  wearisome  in 
so  short  a  time  ? "  asked  Frank  Kennedy. 

"  Because  he  she  loved  was  dead !" 

"  Gertrude,  you  are  ill !"  exclaimed  her  watch- 
ful sister. 

"  No,  no,  it  is  past  now.     But  it  feels  cold  sit- 
ting here." 

Frank  laughed,  and  declared  his  belief  that  she 
v/as  afraid  of  the  spirits  which  are  said  to  haunt 
such  spots  ;  while  the  girl,  in  answer  to  his  jests, 
confessed,  in  a  low  voice  that,  although  she  may 
have  been  somewhat  of  a  coward  in  that  respect 
once,  since  she  had  known  him  she  had  but  one 
fear ;  and  then  she  whispered  it  with  tearful  eyes 
while  Frank  bent  down  aud  kissed  them,  sooth 
ing  her  with  kind  and  gentle  words.  Margaret 
and  the  doctor,  as  in  duty  bound,  walking  slowly 
on,  although  the  former  looked  a  little  shy,  and 
the  latter  very  much  as  if  he  should  like  to  follow 
the  example  of  the  young  Englishman,  in  some 
things  at  least. 

At  one  end  of  the  enclosure,  as  is  the  case  m 
most  German  burial  grounds,  the  literal  and 
beautiful  translation  of  which  is  "  Court  of  Peace," 
or,  "  God's  Acre,"  was  a  cloister  set  apart  for 
the  more  sumptuous  monuments  of  the  rich  and 
noble;  in  the  dim  shadow  of  the  entrance  tc 
25^ 


294  THE    DEAD   WATCH. 

which  stood  an  old  man,  his  long  thin  hair,  ana 
sharp  withered  face,  bleached  by  time  and  age 
almost  to  the  same  white  hue.  His  very  clothes 
vvrere  of  a  similar  undefined  greyish  color,  and 
Margaret  took  him  at  first  for  a  statue,  and  even 
touched  him  with  her  hand,  while  he  smiled 
dreamily,  as  she  started  back  trembling  and 
Iau2:hin2f  to  the  side  of  her  sister. 

"  Poor  man  !"  said  Gertrude;  "  speak  to  him, 
Frank." 

Her  companion  obeyed  her,  asking  who  he  was, 
and  what  he  did  alone  in  so  solitary  a  spot? 

"  We  watch  the  dead !"  was  the  reply. 

"  Oh  !  no  fear  of  their  running  away,  I  should 
think,  father." 

"  But  they  may  wake  up  ! " 

Frank  thought  the  old  man  mad,  until  Karl 
Holzenhauser  explained  to  them  that,  communi- 
catino:  with  the  cloister  v/as  a  buildinsf  where  the 
bodies  of  the  dead  are  placed,  in  conformity  with 
a  police  regulation  adopted  in  most  German 
towns,  within  twelve  hours  after  death ;  the  only 
distinction  between  the  rich  and  the  poor  being, 
that  the  former  repose  in  an  apartment  better 
fitted  up,  hung  with  black,  and  lighted  by  a  dis- 
mal lamp.  In  this  gloomy  chamber  the  dead 
bodies,  deposited  in  their  cofhns,  await  the  time 
appointed  for  interment.  A  peculiar  precaution 
being  adopted  to  guard  against  the  accident  of 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  295 

burial  in  cases  of  suspended  animation.  The 
fingers  of  the  prostrate  corpse  are  placed  in  loops 
of  strings,  or  hell-ropes,  attached  to  an  alarm-bell, 
which  is  fixed  in  the  apartment  of  an  attendant 
appointed  to  he  on  the  watch ;  the  slightest  pul- 
sation of  the  body  would  be  thus  sufficient  to  give 
the  alarm,  and  medical  aid  is  always  at  hand. 

"  It  is  Peter  Hoffmann's  duty  to  keep  the  night 
watch,"  added  the  doctor,  "  and  during  the  day 
he  visits  his  family,  or  wanders  about  whither  he 
pleases,  but  generally,  as  by  a  spell,  in  the  same 
place  which  has  known  him  for  the  last  thirty 
years." 

"  And  has  life  ever  been  saved  in  this  way?" 
asked  Frank. 

"  Certainly ;  we  have  several  well  authenti- 
cated cases  on  record,  although  I  must  confess 
that  it  still  oftener  happens  otherwise,  and  medi- 
cal aid  is  vain  ;  as  though  the  yearning  spirit 
had  but  returned,  as  it  were,  to  take  a  last 
glimpse  of  the  world  where  it  had  been  so 
happy." 

"  How  solitary  it  must  be,"  said  Gertrude, 
kindly,  to  the  old  man,  "  to  sit  in  the  still  night  all 
g.lone,  listening  for  the  summons  of  the  departed 
struggling  back  again  to  life  ! " 

"  It  never  seems  so  to  me,  lady." 

"  But  how  do  you  keep  yourself  awake  ?" 

"  By  slee'^ing  in  the  day  time." 


296  THE    DEAD    WATCH. 

♦'  And  you  have  heard  the  bell  many  times 
they  tell  me,  during  the  years  you  have  kep' 
watch  ? " 

"  Aye,  often  and  often,  when  no  one  else  did, 
and  I  have  been  miles  and  miles  away  in  far 
country  places;  or  as  1  lay  dreaming  in  the 
broad  sunlio;ht.  And  sometimes  it  has  runaf  in 
reality.  None  who  once  hear  that  bell  can  ever 
forget  it  again." 

Gertrude  dropped  some  money  into  his  hand, 
and  they  passed  on,  for  it  was  growing  late,  while 
an  exulting  smile  flitted  over  the  old  man's 
white  face,  as  he  likewise  moved  rapidly  away  in 
an  opposite  direction. 

"  He  is  gone  now  to  buy  something  for  little 
Pauline,"  said  the  doctor  to  Marg-aret. 

"  And  who  is  Pauline  ? " 

"  His  grandchild,  a  beautiful  coquettish  little 
thing  on  whom  he  lavishes  all  he  receives. 
They  do  say  she  will  be  quite  an  heiress,  for 
Hoffmann  is  far  from  poor,  and  being  instrumental 
m  the  way  in  which  I  have  been  describing,  in 
lestoring  the  temporarily  extinguished  life  of  the 
eldest  son  of  the  Baron  Von  F ,  is  the  pos- 
sessor of  many  costly  trinkets  which  the  little 
maiden  displays  with  great  glee.  It  is  strange 
to  see  the  perfect  love  which  subsists  between 
these  two — the  old  man  and  the  child  —  the  last 
of  tbeir  race!     They  remind  me  of  the  rock  and 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  297 

the  flower,  or  a  girl  and  her  shadow,  that  dark, 
shapeless  thing  which  moves  and  frolics  only 
at  her  bidding,  and  although  at  times  unseen,  is 
ever  near  her  and  about  her  with  a  watchful 
love." 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Frank  Kennedy,  abruptly, 
and  his  merry  voice  breaking  in  upon  the  dreamy 
accents  of  the  German,  sounded  harsh  and  out  of 
place,  —  "when  I  die  I  hope  it  may  be  at  Frank- 
fort, for,  from  a  boy,  I  had  always  a  horror  of 
being  buried  alive.  Not  that  I  should  like  to 
trust  to  the  wakefulness  of  that  half-witted  old 
man.  What  say  you,  dearest,  will  you  keep 
vigil  for  me  ?  " 

"  Frank,"  began  the  girl,  and  then  her  voice 
failed  her,  and  she  turned  away  and  wept. 

"  Nay,  this  is  weakness,  my  Gertrude  !" 

"  I  confess  it,  but  do  not  chidt  me  for  I  am  not 
quite  well  to-day."  And  the  girl  seemed  glad  to 
have  found  an  excuse  for  her  silence  and  her 
tears,  which  would  flow ;  or  for  Frank's  soothing 
whispers  and  fond  caresses ;  while  Karl  Holzen- 
hauser  wondered,  with  something  of  indignation, 
whether  ad  Englishmen  took  the  same  selfish 
pleasure  in  wounding,  in  order  to  demonstrate 
the  affection  of  the  beloved  one. 

That  night  the  dark  passionate  eyes  and  the 
eloquent  voice  of  the  German  doctor  haunted 
Margaret  strangely,  while  her  sister,  less  happy 


298  THE    DEAD    WATCH. 

in  her  troubled  sleep,  dreamed  of  that  ancienl 
man  who  watched  the  dead. 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  day  was  already 
fixed  for  their  return,  while  Frank  and  Gertrude 
thought  less  of  Germany,  and  more  of  the  happy 
English  home  to  which  they  were  going  back, 
laying  a  thousand  bright  plans  for  the  future,  des- 
tined never  to  be  realized.  Alas  !  that  it  should 
be  ever  thus  with  our  most  cherished  imai^innisfs  ! 
"When  together,  the  sisters  spoke  of  little  besides 
bridal  silks  and  laces,  although  the  elder,  had  she 
been  less  preoccupied,  might  have  noticed  that 
Margaret  often  answered  vaguely,  and  with  tear- 
suffused  eyes,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  otherwise 
engaged,  and  evidently  showed  but  little  impa- 
tience to  return  to  her  native  land.  During  the 
last  few  days  of  their  stay,  Karl  Holzenhiiuser  was 
almost  constantly  with  them,  while  Margaret  would 
sit  for  hours  after  his  departure  without  speak- 
ing, bending  over  a  book  which  he  had  given  her 
—  her  tears  falling  like  rain  upon  its  pages.  But 
no  wonder,  for  who  but  a  stoic  could  read  Goethe's 
"  InhiGfenia  his  "  Maid  of  Orleans,"  or  "  Tor- 
quato  Tasso,"  with  dry  eyes. 

The  departure  of  our  travellers  was,  however, 
most  unavoidably  postponed  by  the  sudden  illness 
of  Frank  Kennedy.  At  first  no  danger  was  ap- 
prehended, and  preparations  for  their  journey  still 
vent  on  ;  until  the  disease  presently  took  a  less 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  299 

favorable  turn,  and  desolation  fell,  like  a  cloud, 
upon  that  band  of  hopeful  and  happy  hearts. 
The  young  and  joyous,  stricken  down  in  the  pride 
of  his  glorious  manhood  and  unbroken  spirit — 
the  loving,  the  beloved !  The  bridegroom,  for 
whose  return  they  waited  in  his  native  land  in 
vain.  It  seemed  hard  to  think  that  he  must  pass 
away  thus,  but  harder  still  for  those  he  left  be- 
hind. 

In  that  hour  of  grief  and  separation,  Karl  Hol- 
zenhauser  bitterly  reproached  himself  for  having 
once  deemed  the  young  Englishman  selfish,  when 
he  saw  him  smiling  amidst  fierce  pain  to  still  the 
wilder  agony  of  her  who  never  left  him  for  a 
moment ;  or  whispering  gently  of  a  better  land, 
where  there  were  no  partings  and  no  tears. 
Asking  her,  in  his  passionate  and  self-sacrificing 
love,  not  to  remember,  but  forget  him  and  be 
happy !  Poor  Gertrude !  it  was  sad  to  see  her 
going  from  one  to  the  other,  with  her  pale  face, 
and  dark  earnest  eyes,  exclaiming — 

"  Father !  Margaret !  he  will  not  die  ?  " 

To  which  the  former  dared  not  reply,  while 
the  latter,  with  the  hopeful  spirit  of  youth,  would 
answer,  gently — 

"  Heaven  is  merciful,  my  sister,  let  us  pray 
that  he  may  be  spared  to  our  love."  And  if 
prayers  could  have  saved  him,  Frank  Kennedy 
had  not  perished. 


300  THE    DEAD    WATCH. 

It  was  a  glorious  summer  noon,  when  the 
voices  of  alternate  hope,  and  joy,  and  lamenta- 
tion, were  suddenly  hushed  in  the  quiet  chamber 
of  death.  And  the  bright  sun,  the  only  thing 
that  smiled,  shut  out  so  closely  that  but  one  long 
streak  of  light  managed  to  find  its  way  amidst 
the  darkness,  and  settle  like  a  glory  upon  the  still 
brow  of  the  corpse ;  while  the  crowd  who  watched 
beneath  with  a  strange  sympathy  for  the  young 
lovers,  knew  by  the  closed  windows  that  all  was 
over,  and  went  home  to  weep  and  pray.  The 
sisters,  pale  and  trembling,  sat,  clasped  in  each 
other's  arms,  in  the  dim  twilight  of  their  once 
joyous  saloon ;  while  the  merchant,  half  bewil- 
dered by  this  sudden  stroke,  dared  to  question 
Providence  itself  why  it  should  be  thus.  The 
green  tree  cut  down  in  its  pride  and  strength, 
while  the  old  and  withered  trunk,  which  might 
have  been  scarcely  missed,  was  still  left  to  cum- 
ber the  ground.  And  ere  the  next  noon  all  was 
in  outward  appearance  as  though  Frank  Kennedy 
had  never  been. 

Gertrude  seemed  calmer,  although  fearfully 
pale,  and  withdrawing  to  her  own  apartment, 
requested  that  no  one  would  come  near  her  any 
more  that  night,  not  even  her  young  sister,  who, 
well  knowing  how  much  need  she  had  to  be 
alone,  promised  to  take  care  that  she  was  no{ 
disturbed.    And  shortly  afterwards  a  slight  figure. 


THE    DEAD   WATCH. 


301 


shrouded  in  a  cloak,  might  have  been  seen  glid- 
ing from  the  house  in  the  direction  of  the  ceme- 
tery where  the  remains  of  the  young  Englishman 
had  been  so  recently  deposited.  On  it  went  like 
a  dream,  through  the  open  door,  and  across  the 
dreary  grave-yard  to  the  cloister,  from  whence  it 
passed,  as  with  a  familiar  step,  although  for  the 
first  time,  to  the  apartment  of  Peter  Hoffmann. 

The  old  man  sai  quite  alone,  with  his  head 
bowed    down    and   resting   upon  his  singularly 
withered  hands,  so  that  the  intruder  might  have 
thought  he   slept,  but  for  the  uneasy  swaying 
motion  of  his  whole  body,  or  an  occasional  sob 
which  burst  forth  in  all  the  wildness  of  a  long 
smothered  grief;  while  his  visitor  knelt  down  by 
his  side,  and  suffering  the  dark  folds  of  her  man- 
tle to  fall  upon  the  ground,  disclosed  to  view  the 
colorless  and  grief-stricken  features  of  Gertrude 
Allen.      Hoffmann   looked   up  vacantly  at   the 
sound  of  her  kind  voice. 

"  Ah ! "  said  he,  "  you  may  well  weep,  but  she 
will  be  better  soon.  She  is  too  young,  too  beau- 
tiful to  die ! " 

The  girl  shuddered,  and  asked  of  whom  he 

spoiie. 

"  Have  you  not  heard,  then  ?  She  is  ill— the 
little,  merry,  laughter-loving  Pauline  !  But  Hea- 
ven will  spare  her,  she  is  so  good— and  but  a 

child  yet." 

2€ 


302 


THE    DEAD    WATCH. 


•'  1  trust  SO,  since  you  love  her  thus,"  said  Ger- 
wTude,  soothingly. 

'Love  her — oh!  yes,  yes,  she  knows  I  love 
her — and  Heaven  knows  it,  and  will  have  mercy 
upon  us  both  ! " 

"  But  why  are  you  not  with  her  now?"  asked 
the  girl,  "  if  she  is  indeed  so  ill."  While  the  old 
man,  glancing  upwards  to  the  bell  which  hung 
immediately  above  his  head,  answered  as  when 
they  had  first  met, 

'*  We  watch  the  dead  /" 

"  Go,"  said  Gertrude,  "  nevertheless,  and  I  will 
take  your  place  for  to-night." 

"  Poor  little  Pauline  !  "  murmured  the  old  man, 
"  how  surprised  she  would  be  to  see  me.  But  you 
know  not  what  you  ask,  lady.  It  takes  a  long 
time  to  get  accustomed  to  this  sort  of  thing,  and 
you  might  be  frightened  at  the  strange  noises 
sometimes  heard  here  at  night  —  or  fall  asleep, 
perhaps." 

"  Peter  Hoffmann  ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  bend- 
ing towards  him,  and  flinging  back  the  hair  from 
her  white  face,  "  we  have  met  before,  do  you 
not  remember  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  now,  that  I  see  you  closer.  You  gave 
me  money,  and  little  Pauline  danced  round  me 
that  night  like  a  fairy,  when  she  saw  the  cakes 
and  bonbons  I  bought  for  her  with  it,  but  would 
not  touch  one  unless  grandpapa  eat  them  too." 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  303 

•'  But  I  was  not  alone  then." 

"No,  I  recollect  all  now  —  the  gentle-eyed 
girl  whom  you  called  your  sister;  and  the 
young  Englishman  with  his  bright  face  and  joy- 
ous glance,  who  never  left  you  for  a  moment ; 
and  yet  did  not  seem  quite  like  a  brother 
either." 

"  He  was  my  betrothed  husband,"  said  the  girl, 
in  a  voice  that  sounded  strangely  calm;  "and 
now  sleeps  beneath  us  in  the  chamber  of  the 
dead ! " 

"  Poor  child ! "  exclaimed  her  companion,  with 
a  compasiiionate  air. 

"  Do  vou  now  fear  that  I  shall  sleep  upon  the 
watch?"  asked  Gertrude. 

"  No,  no,  God  bless  and  pity  you  !     I  will  not 
be  gone  long,  only  to  look  upon  her  face,  and 
see  her  start  and  smile  at  the  sound  of  my  voice 
I  will  be  back  before  midnight." 

"  It  matters  not,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  have  a  bold 
heart ;  remain  with  little  Pauline  as  long  as  you 
will." 

"  If  you  should  hear  a  rustling  and  groaning 
as  night  comes  on,"  observed  the  old  man,  "  it 
will  only  be  the  birds  above  in  the  roof,  or  the 
wind  in  the  old  chimney.  And  you  must  stir 
but  for  one  sound,  in  which  case  a  life  may  hang 
upon  your  speed." 


304  THE    DEAD    WATCH. 

''His  life,"  repeated  Gertrude,  firmly,  "  feal 
not ! " 

The  old  man  went  out,  closing  the  door  aftei 
him,  and  presently  afterwards  the  outer  gate  was 
heard  to  fasten  with  a  harsh,  grating  sound,  and 
the  girl  was  alone,  with  the  dead  beneath  and  all 
around  her.  As  yet  it  was  scarcely  dusk,  but 
night  grew  gradually  in  ;  and  as  Gertrude 
crossed  the  room  to  fasten  the  little  casement,  her 
footstep  sounded  strangely  heavy  and  distinct  in 
the  silence.  She  found  the  lamp  where  Hoff- 
mann had  told  her;  a  dim,  flickering  thing  which 
served  but  to  make  darkness  visible ;  and  near 
it  the  old  man's  Bible,  upon  which  rested  a  with- 
ered bouquet  of  wild  flowers,  the  child's  last  ofTer- 
mg  ere  she  was  stricken  down  by  disease.  Meet 
emblems  of  earthly  and  heavenly  afl^ection,  the 
one  passing  away  so  soon,  the  other  imperishable 
—  immortal ! 

As  Peter  Hoffmann  had  said,  there  were 
strange  sounds  to  be  heard  in  that  desolate  apart- 
ment. The  sighing  of  the  wind,  the  whispering 
of  the  trees,  which  had  ever  something  new  to 
tell  each  other;  or  the  rustlinor  and  screamino^ 
of  the  birds  above  her  head.  But  Gertrude  had 
no  fear ;  her  thoughts  had  wandered  far  away, 
and  even  as  it  were  but  yesterday,  she  saw  a 
bright  face  bending  down  to  hers,  and  a  never  to 
be  forgotten  voice  asking  her  to  keep  vigil  foi 


THE    DEAD    WATCH. 


305 


him,   lest   he   should  wake   again!     And  then, 
breaking  in  upon  her  vision,  came  the  faint  tink- 
ling of  a  bell,  and  yet  when  she  looked  up  all 
was  still ;  and  the  girl  called  to  mind  how  Hoff- 
mann had  heard  it  in  far-off  country  places,  in 
his  sleep,  or  as  he  sat  musing  in  the  glad  sun- 
light, and  thought  that  she  too  had  but  dreamt  it. 
The  flickering  shadow  of  the  lamp,  swayed  to 
and  fro  by  the  wind,  danced  mockingly  upon  the 
discolored  walls  and  ceiling— and  yet  surely  it 
was  not  the  only  thing  that  moved.     The  wire  ! 
—did  it  not  likewise  vibrate  ?     The  bell  — there 
was  no  sound,  but  its  iron  tongue  swang  visibly 
backwards  and  forwards.     Gertrude  pressed  her 
hand    to    her    throbbing   temples  —  she   looked 
again,  and  again  came  that  voiceless  summons. 
And  then,  bending  down  her  head,  she  prayed 
heaven  she  might  not  be  going  mad.     Suddenly, 
as  she  knelt,  there  arose  up  tlie  clear  ringing  of 
a  bell— ^^e  bell  which  once  heard  is  never  after- 
wards forgotten.     It  was  no  dream  now,  it  rang 
out  again  and  again  —  now  loudly,  as  if  in  despair 
—  and  then  fainter— and  fainter— and  fainter  — 
but  still  the  girl  stirred  not.     And  once  more, 
after  all  had  been  long  still,  it  burst  forth,  and  she 
shrieked  wildly,  trying  in  vain  to  rise,  and  drag- 
ging herself  along  the  ground^  which  she  tore  up 
in  many  places  with  her  nails,  and  at  length 
reaching  the  door  with  difficulty,  swooned  away 
26* 


3G(i  THE    DEAD    WATCH. 

upon  Its  threshold,  just  as  the  bell  ceased  for  the 
last  lime! 

Pauline  was  better ;  there  was  a  faint  tinge  of 
tolor  upon  her  rounded  cheek,  and  a  light  in  her 
soft  eyes,  as  she  looked  up  and  smiled  fondly  in 
the  face  of  her  grandfather.  And  the  old  man 
went  back  a  little  before  midnight  with  a  light  step 
and  grateful  heart.  Gertrude  still  lay  cold  and 
senseless  where  she  had  fallen,  and  Hoffmann 
blamed  himself  severely  for  having  left  her. 

"  Poor  child  ! "  murmured  he,  "  it  was  but 
natural  she  should  feel  fearful  in  this  lone  place." 
And  i^itting  down  upon  the  ground,  for  he  was 
too  feeble  to  raise  her,  the  old  man  laid  her  head 
upon  his  knees,  and  sought  for  a  long  time  in 
vain  to  restore  the  miserable  girl  to  life.  Pres- 
ently, however,  she  opened  her  dim  eyes  and 
gazed  vacantly  around. 

"  Hush ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  as  Hoffmann 
was  about  to  speak  to  her.  "  Do  you  not  hear 
it?" 

"  Hear  what,  lady  ?  " 

"  The  bell ! " 

"  No,  not  now,"  said  the  -^Id  man,  shaking  his 
head  with  a  bewildered  air,  "but  often — very 
often  when  none  else  do ! " 

"  It  rang  to-night,"  said  the  girl  with  increas- 
ing vehemence.  ''He  rang  it!  once — twice  — 
thrice  —  and  there  was  none  to  answer — none  to 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  307 

save.     It  seemed  as  though  a  spell  held  me  back, 
and  he  was  lost '  " 

"  Nay,  you  have  been  dreaming,"  said  Hoff- 
mann, soothingly. 

"  No,  I  will  swear  it !  There  may  be  time 
yet,  but  I  am  too  weak  to  move.  Go,  in  Hea- 
ven's name,  and  save  him  !" 

Moved  by  her  evident  emotion,  the  old  man 
took  up  the  lamp,  and  leaving  her  sitting  upon 
the  ground  in  the  darkness,  went  down  to  the 
chamber  of  death,  but  without  alarming  the  med- 
ical officer  in  attendance,  believing  it  to  be  but 
the  girl's  own  vivid  fancy.     One  after  the  other 
Peter  Hoffmann  looked  upon  tbe  pale,  changeless 
features  of  the  dead,  as  they  lay  with  the  motion- 
less cord  between  their  white  fingers  ;  until  he 
came  at  length  to  a  coffin  but  recently  deposited, 
that  of  the  young  Englishman,  and  a  cold  shud- 
der passed  over  him.     The  corpse  was   turned 
half  round,  tbe  features,  a  few  hours  ago  so  smil 
ing  and  peaceful,  fearfully  distorted  ;    and  the 
firmly-clenched  hands,  instead  of  the  rope  which 
had  failed  in  that  hour  of  untold  agony  and  a 
second  death,  held  each  a  mass  of  bright  sunny 
hair,  torn  away  with  the  last  effort  of  expiring 
nature.     And  while  the  old  man  yet  stood  motion- 
less, and  horror-stricken,  a  wild  woman's  shriek 
rose  suddenly  up  in  that  still  place,  and  Gertrude 


308  THE    DEA^   WATCH. 

fell  senseless  upon  the  biet  of  him  she  had  loved 
and  destroyed  ! 

Years  have  passed  away  since  that  fatal  night, 
and  Karl  Holzenhauser,  after  a  lengthened  ab- 
sence from  his  native  land,  brought  home  a  young 
and  gentle  English  wife,  to  whom  his'  affection 
was  to  be  henceforth  all  in  all,  for  she  had  none 
else  in  the  world  to  love  or  care  for  l|£r.  Almost 
their  first  visit  was  to  the  cemeteryi^  where  a 
simple  grave-stone  marked  the  resting^lace  of 
poor  Frank  Kennedy,  and  a  chaplet  of  fresh  flow- 
ers that  he  was  yet  unforgotten.  A  ^oung  girl 
knelt  beside  it,  with  her  ^nny  b;^w  pressed 
thoughtfully  against  the  cola  marble,  to  whom 
the  doctor  spoke  kindly  as  to  an  old  friend.  It 
was  Peter  Hoffmann's  little  Pauline,  and  she  told 
them  that  the  old  man  too  was  dead. 

"Come,  come,  Margaret!"  exclaimed  Karl 
Holzenhauser  at  length,  as  the  lady  still  wept  and 
wrung  her  hands  beside  th^  grave  ;  "  did  you  not 
promise  me  that  you  would  be  calm  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,  forgive  mA  Karl !  "  and  she  rose  up 
meekly,  and  taking  hif  arm  they  walked  slowly 
away. 

"  One  moment ! "  exclaimed  Pauline,  obeying 
the  uncontrolable  impulse  of  her  own  quick  feel 
ings.     "  Do  tell  me  of  her — of  poor  Gertrude 
Does  she  yet  live  ?" 

"  She  does  not!"  replied  the  doctor. 


THE    DEAD    WATCH.  309 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  murmured  the  child,  "  they 
are  united  at  last  I  " 

"  You  hear  her,  Marofaret?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  wTong  to  grieve  you  by  sorrowing 
thus,  but  should  rather  be  thankful  that  she  is  a" 
rest ! "  And  a  cafnarffess  fell  upon  the  wearied 
spirit  of  the  grief-stricken  girl  from  that  houir 


-i'* 


310 


GEORGIANA. 

BY     MRS.      C.W.      HUNT. 

The  extreme  beauty  and  spiritua^  richness  of  the  foUowiog 
poem  will  make  every  reader  prize  its  length.  b. 

'T  IS  evening  hour ;  a  sunset  bright 
Is  gilding  with  its  golden  light 
The  far  hill-tops ;  the  glowing  earth 
Is  radiant  as  of  infant  birth. 

The  wind  is  playing  'mong  the  bowers, 
Stealing  sweets  from  all  the  flowers, 
Wafting  their  incense  like  a  sea 
Of  perfume,  gushing  melody. 

The  deep,  before  so  dark  and  cold, 
Now  gleams  like  waves  of  molten  gold ; 
The  fisher-barks  at  anchor  ride 
With  close-furled  pinions  o'er  the  tide, — 
Like  some  dark  birds  from  out  the  sky 
Attracted  by  its  brilliancy, — 
Are  by  some  secret  fetters  bound. 
Moving  in  mystic  circles  round. 

'T  is  hallowed  time  ;  a  solemn  speil 
Is  brooding  over  hill  and  dell, 


GEOUGIANA.  3l, 

Stirring  the  fountain  depths  of  thought. 
With  sweet  and  bitter  mem'ries  fraught ; 
Yet  soothing  us  His  voice,  whose  will 
The  tempest  hushed,  with  "  Peace-be-still ! " 
Waking  the  spirit's  finest  chords, 
Like  music-strains  and  gentle  words. 
On  the  heart's  altar !  kindling  there 
Are  hopes,  as  sunset  shadows  fair. 

Hark  !  the  bell !  on  the  evening  breath, 
1  hear  it  pealing — "  Welcome,  death  !  " 
See  that  long  procession  wind 
Around  the  hill !  now  lost  behind  ! 
They  're  bearing,  at  this  quiet  hour, 
With  sorrowing  hearts,  from  her  home-bowei 
A  lovely  child  ;  two  days  ago 
The  tide  of  life  with  sparkling  glow, 
Flushed  her  fair  cheek  ;  her  joyous  brow 
Seemed  beauty's  throne,  —  but  mark  her  now 
Pale,  pale  and  cold  —  ^--et  beauteous  still. 
As  some  fair  frozen,  sparkling  rill 
Beneath  the  glancing  moonbeam's  power ; 
So  seemed  she  at  this  evening  hour. 

Relenting  death — as  with  regret 
That  he  so  soon  his  seal  had  set 
Upon  her  brow — withdrev/  his  arm, 
Ere  he  had  sullied  one  fair  charm. 
She  lay  within  her  coffin-cell 
Like  priceless  pearl  in  costly  shell. 


312  GEORGIANA. 

Enshrined  in  light,  so  pure — so  rare, 
A  breath  would  leave  a  shadow  there. 

Her  head  was  laid  as  if  asleep, 
Partially  shading  one  fair  cheek  ; 
Her  bright  hair  parted  on  her  brow, 
In  glossy  ringlets  fell  below 
On  either  side;  one  dimpled  hand 
A  rosebud  held  ;  a  rainbow  band 
Of  flow'rets  wreathed  the  coffin-lid, 
As  if  the  fatal  truth  they  hid, 
That  she  was  dead  ;  frail  diadem  ' 
The  casket's  there — but  where 's  the  gem? 
The  censer  's  there  —  still  —  still  the  same, 
But. where  's  the  incense  ?  where,  the  flame? 

Great  God  !  it  seems  a  m^^'stery, 
That  thou  shouldst  spare  the  aged  tree, 
Until  its  grey  and  sapless  trunk 
Trembles  and  totters  as  if  drunk 
With  age,  crushing  the  tender  shoot. 
Ere  it  had  scarcely  taken  root. 

She  seemed  some  cherished  hot-house  flower, 
Broken  in  an  unguarded  hour ; 
A  nestling  stricken  by  the  dart 
Hurled  blindly,  by  some  careless  heart. 
liYve  fowler  shoots  Avith  erring  a'm, 
May  not  the  archer  do  the  same? 


CEORGIANA.  313 

Say,  Death !  did'st  mean  this  victory  ? 
Flew  not  the  shaft  unwarily  ? 

Far  away  o'er  the  sun-bright  sea, 
Their  proud  ship  coursing  gallantly, 
Are  those — who,  did  they  know  the  bed 
That  this  night  pillows  thy  young  head. 
Would  be  like  wrecks  o'er  storm-waves  borne, 
WTien  rudder — masts — and  all  are  gone. 

Wilder  than  the  troubled  ocean, 

Over  which  thou  now  art  borne, 
When,  by  storms  and  rude  conmiotion, 

Ships  are  tossed — and  sails  are  torn, 
Will  be  the  tempest  in  thy  bosom 

When  the  tidings  thou  shalt  hear. 
That  thy  loved  and  cherished  blossom 

Faded  —  died — and  thou  not  near. 

She — the  young  and  joyous-hearted. 

Whom  thou  left  in  beauty's  bloom. 
From  thy  warm  embrace  is  parted, 

Slumbers  in  the  icy  tomb. 
As  the  wave  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Passes  ere  its  brightness  dies. 
So  undimmed — no  sorrow  knowing 

Passed  her  spirit  to  the  skies. 

Mother — did  no  spirit  token 

Tell  thee  then — the  cord  was  snapped? 
27 


314  GEOKGIANA. 

That  the  golden  bowl  was  broken,. 

And  the  heart's  bright  fountain  sapped  ? 
Did  no  shadow  fall  around  thee, 

When  the  last  pure  life-beam  fled  ? 
Did  no  tempest  clouds  surround  thee, 

Bringing  night  ere  day  had  sped  ?  ^ 

When  the  deep-toned  bell  was  pealing 

Did  no  echo  reach  thy  soul  ? 
When  the  mourner's  tears  were  stealing 

Did  not  thine  instinctive  roll  ? 
Tell  us  !  is  no  warning  given 

When  the  distant  loved  one  dies  ? 
When  the  spirit-links  are  riven, 

Are  there  heard  no  boding  cries  ? 

When  the  tender  rose-bud 's  taken 

From  the  tree  whereon  it  grew, 
By  the  shock  the  whole  is  shaken, 

Branches — stem — and  leaflets  too. 
Tell — 0,  tell  us  when  the  treasures 

From  the  rifled  heart  are  borne, 
Are  there  heard  no  spirit  measures. 

Chanting  sadly — "  they  are  gone  ! 

In  mournful  loveliness  she  slumbers, 
Where  the  forest  flow'rets  wave; 

Trees  are  sounding  dirge-like  numbers 
O'er  her  calm  and  peaceful  grave. 

*  She  died  at  noon. 


GEORGIANA.  315 

*T  is  a  hallowed  spot  and  fitting 
To  entomb  the  young — the  fair, 

\VTiere  the  bright  wild  birds  are  flitting, 
Sprinkling  incense  on  the  air. 

Dark  will  be  thy  home — and  dreary. 

Shadows  from  the  grave  are  there ; 
For  that  sunny  smile  thou  'It  weary, 

Which  is  beaming, — mother,  where! 
Hush  thee, — hush!  she  's  with  her  Maker 

Fled  earth's  weariness  and  care  ; 
The  smiling  morn  no  more  will  wake  her 

From  thy  couch — she  sleeps  not  there ' 

She 's  gone  to  God !  angels  greet  her ! 

Gone  to  join  the  seraph-band 
Who  are  springing  now  to  meet  her, 

In  the  glorious  spirit-land. 
'T  is  a  blessed  lot  and  joyous. 

Thus  to  die  in  early  youth. 
Ere  the  storms  of  life  sweep  o'er  us, 

Staining  the  bright  springs  of  truth. 

Weep  not !  in  the  spirit's  lightness, 

'Tis  a  blessed  lot  to  sleep ; 
Ere  earth's  shadows  dim  its  brightness, 

To  depart ;  O !  wherefore  weep ! 

Duxburyi  Mass. 


316 


THE  WIDOW  OF  ANTWERP. 

Though  attached  by  habit  and  conviction  to  a 
simpler  form  of  worship,  I  have  seldom  entered 
a  Catholic  church  without  feelings  of  seriousness 
and  devotion.  The  imposing  pageantry  of  the 
ceremonies,  the  splendid  dresses  of  the  priests 
and  choristers,  the  deep  and  solemn  bass  of  voices 
almost  as  powerful  as  the  instruments  that  accom- 
pany them,  the  elevated  crucifix,  the  burning 
tapers,  the  silver  crozier,  the  censers  flung  grace- 
fully aloft,  the  richly  decorated  altar,  produce  an 
effect  which  the  belief  that  they  are  merely  as 
"  sounding  brass  and  a  tinkling  cymbal,"  cannot 
destroy. 

It  is  not  in  these,  however,  that  the  religioq  of 
a  Catholic  place  of  worship  consists.  Kneeling 
in  some  retired  spot,  apart  from  the  sights  or 
sounds  that  attract  the  curious  or  indifferent, 
female  devotion  may  be  seen  offering  up  her 
prayers,  with  a  fervor  that  shows  her  deep  feel- 
ing of  the  power  and  mercy  of  the  Being  before 
whom  she  bows,  and  with  the  humility  and  ab- 
straction of  unaffected  piety. 

In  the  frequent  visits  which  the  beauty  of  its 
architecture  induced  me  to  make  to  the  cathedral, 


THE    WIDOW    OF    ANTWERP.  317 

the  first  time  I  was  at  Antwerp,  I  had  often  seen 
a  figure  of  this  description,  for  whom  the  world 
around  her  appeared  to  have  lost  all  interest.  She 
knelt  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  pillars,  and,  from 
the  earnestness  of  her  manner,  all  that  was  yet 
dear  to  her  seemed  involved  in  the  acceptance  of 
her  prayers. 

Though  time  and  grief  had  committed  their 
ravages,  her  face  was  still  interesting,  and  had 
that  expression  of  mildness  and  of  suffering,  which 
shows  a  spirit  accustomed  to  misfortune,  and  too 
feeble  to  support  its  visitations. 

Her  countenance  daily  became  paler,  and  her 
prayers  more  earnest :  and  to  gratify  the  curiosity 
her  appearance  had  excited,  I  at  length  obtained 
her  history  from  one  of  the  donneurs  d'eau  benite, 
who  had  often  before  answered  my  inquiries  as 
to  the  temple  of  which  he  was  amongst  the  hum- 
blest servants,  and  of  the  most  remarkable  of 
those  who  frequented  it. 

She  was  the  widow  of  an  officer,  who  died  m 
the  service  of  Napoleon  at  the  commencement  of 
his  brilliant  career,  leaving  her  with  a  scanty 
annuity,  and  a  son  and  daughter  to  support  and 
educate.  Whatever  might  have  been  her  weak- 
ness, she  performed  this  sacred  duty  conscien- 
tiously, and  was  gratified  by  seeing  her  cares 
bestowed  upon  two  of  the  best  and  kindest  dispo- 
sitions in  the  world.  Her  daughter  was  married 
27^ 


318  THE    WIDOW    OF    ANTWERP- 

but  died  a  few  months  afterwards ;  axid  her  son 
was  now  the  only  object  that  made  life  dear  to 
her. 

Yet  the  life  of  a  mother,  in  circumstances  like 
these,  is  but  a  succession  of  privations.  Her 
comforts  are  given  up  to  the  expense  of  her 
children's  education  —  her  feelings  must  yield  to 
the  necessity  of  parting  with  them  when  their 
interests  call  them  from  her.  The  being  in 
whom  all  her  cares  and  hopes  have  centred,  to 
whose  affections  she  has  been  accustomed  to  look 
for  a  short  gleam  of  brightness  before  she  sinks 
into  the  grave,  is  removed  to  a  distant  country, 
or,  perhaps,  taken  from  her  forever.  In  their 
struggles  with  the  world  her  anxieties  are  again 
renewed,  and  the  path  over  which  she  has  toiled 
seems  to  bring  her  no  nearer  to  the  object  of  her 
painful  efforts. 

It  was  to  the  island  of  Curasao  that  the  son  of 
this  poor  widow  had  been  destined  by  the  friends 
on  whose  assistance  she  depended.  He  had 
been  there  for  some  years,  had  been  successful, 
and  had  taken  his  passage  on  board  a  small  ves- 
sel to  visit  his  native  country,  and  make  some 
provision  for  the  old  age  of  a  parent  to  whom  he 
was  sensible  how  much  he  owed. 

To  her  this  intelligence  was  a  new  life.  Be- 
fore the  time  for  the  shortest  passage  that  had 
ever  been  known  had  elapsed,  she  was  anxiously 


THE    WIDOW    OF    ANTWERP.  319 

coking  out  for  his  arrival,  and  daily  poured  hei 
prayers  to  Heaven  for  his  safety.  Weeks  were 
passed  in  painful  suspense :  the  owners  of  the 
vessel  in  which  he  was  expected  began  to  answer 
her  inquiries  with  less  confidence,  and  at  length 
partook  of  her  fears  as  to  its  fate.  In  a  few  days 
more,  accounts  were  brought  of  its  having  foun- 
dered in  a  gale  of  wind  within  a  week  of  its  de- 
parture from  Curasao,  and  little  doubt  was  enter- 
tained that  all  on  board  had  perished.  Still  noth- 
ing certain  was  known,  and  the  wretched  mother 
clung  to  the  last  hope,  and  prayed  to  her  God  that 
it  might  be  fulfilled.  It  was  about  this  time  that 
I  first  saw  her,  and  shortly  afterwards  "  the  com- 
posure of  settled  distress  "  convinced  me  that  she 
no  longer  expected  to  be  united  in  this  world  to 
those  she  had  loved  and  lost. 

I  left  Antwerp  for  a  few  days,  and  on  the 
evening  of  my  return,  while  sitting  in  the  Cafe 
where  I  had  dined,  I  heard  a  young  man  at  the 
next  table  relating  some  circumstances  which 
seemed  listened  to  by  his  companions  with  much 
interest. 

"  A  sudden  flaw  of  wind,"  said  he,  "  struck  our 
vessel,  and  every  piece  of  canvass  on  board  being 
set,  she  fell  upon  her  beam  ends,  and  all  our 
exertions  to  right  her  were  in  vain.  A  heavy 
gale  soon  followed,  and  she  filled.  Her  masts 
■^ent  by  the  board  ;  and  she  was  prevented  from 


320  THE    WIDOW   OF   ANTWERP. 

sinking  only  by  the  buoyancy  of  the  cargo,  which 
was  just  sufficient  to  keep  the  quarter-deck  above 
the  surface  of  the  water. 

"  Fearing  that  she  would  go  to  pieces,  the  cap- 
tain and  crew  took  to  their  boat,  and  promised  to 
drop  under  the  stern  for  myself  and  young  Kel- 
lerman,  (you  knew  Henry  Kellerman,  the  son  of 
old  Madame  Kellerman,  in  the  Rue  de  Stras- 
bourg ?)  By  accident  or  design,  however,  the 
boat  broke  adrift,  and  the  height  of  the  waves 
soon  hid  it  forever  from  our  sight. 

"  During  the  night  the  sea  continued  to  break 
over  us  ;  and  at  dawn  I  perceived  that  my  com- 
panion was  lying  dead  by  my  side.  I  shrank 
with  horror  from  the  sight,  and  casting  off  the 
lashings  that  held  him  to  the  deck,  I  repeated 
a  short  prayer,  and  committed  his  body  to  the 
deep. 

"  Many  things  floated  out  of  the  cabin,  but  I 
was  only  able  to  secure  a  fishing  line  and  hook, 
a  jar  of  spirits,  and  a  few  pounds  of  salted  meat. 
These,  however,  were  invaluable. 

"  Sharks  were  now  constantly  moving  round 
the  vessel.  I  had  seen  the  limbs  of  poor  Keller- 
man become  their  prey,  and  I  looked  upon  them 
as  my  own  grave.  I  cried,  '  Great  God,  have 
mercy  upon  me  ! '  and  resigned  myself  to  my 
fate. 

'  On  the  morning  of  the  fifteenth  day,  1  per- 


THE    WIDOW    OF    ANTWERP.  321 

ceived  a  sail.  But  she  was  far  off:  I  was  with- 
out the  means  of  making  a  signal,  and  probably 
beyond  sight. 

"  In  an  hour,  however,  she  bore  towards  me, 
and  soon  afterwards  she  was  at  such  a  distance 
as  might  have  enabled  the  persons  on  deck  to 
have  seen  me.  My  breast  swelled  as  she  drew 
nearer :  I  raised  myself  to  be  better  seen ;  but 
she  went  upon  an  opposite  tack  and  left  me  for- 
ever. 

"  A  cold  horror  seemed  to  steal  across  my 
heart :  I  again  sank  upon  the  deck,  and  burst 
mto  tears. 

"  I  remained  the  whole  day  and  night  in  a  stu- 
por of  indifference  and  despair ;  and  when  I  re- 
covered myself  on  the  following  morning,  I  found 
that,  to  add  to  my  miseries,  the  hook  and  a  great 
part  of  the  fishing-line  had  been  carried  away. 
My  strengtn  had  begun  to  leave  me  for  some 
time :  but  with  the  perseverance  of  one  who 
makes  a  last  effort  for  his  existence,  I  forced  a 
nail  from  the  upper  works  of  the  vessel,  and 
with  my  teeth  I  bent  it  to  a  hook.  By  means  of 
this  I  was  enabled  to  support  myself  for  five  days 
longer  :  but  I  became  dreadfully  emaciated  ;  and 
the  spirits,  which  were  my  only  drink,  produced 
a  nausea  which  was  insupportable.  One-and- 
twenty  days  had  thus  been  past,  and  the  night 
was  fast  closing  in,  when  a  brig  bore  down  upon 


322  THE    WIDOW    OF    ANTWERP. 

me,  and  passed  so  near  as  to  rub  against  the 
wreck.  They  heard  and  saved  me.  It  was  with 
difficulty  I  was  taken  on  board ;  but  my  strength 
gradually  returned,  and  on  recovering  myself,  I 
found  I  was  on  board  the  Maelstrom,  bound  for 
Rotterdam,  where  I  arrived  on  Monday  last." 

"  You  must  have  passed  a  fearful  time,"  said 
one  of  his  companions,  "  and  while  left  so  bng 
in  such  a  situation,  what  could  have  occupied 
your  thoughts  ?  " 

"  I  thought,"  replied  he,  "  of  almost  everything 
that  had  ever  interested  me  —  of  my  home,  of  my 
mother,  of  Agnes,  and  of  my  own  future  state. 
Once,  incredible  as  it  may  appear,  some  strange 
combination  crossed  my  fancy,  and  I  laughed 
aloud ;  but,  O,  God !  I  shall  never  forget  the 
horrid  sound  of  my  own  voice  as  it  broke  upon 
the  awful  silence  that  surrounded  me ! " 

The  conversation  soon  afterwards  changed, 
and  the  party  separated. 

On  going  to  the  cathedral  the  following  Sun- 
day, I  saw  the  same  young  man  walking  with 
the  widow,  and  found  that  he  was  the  son  for 
whose  safety  she  had  so  often  prayed.  She  was 
accompanied  by  a  very  beautiful  girl,  the  Agnes,  I 
supposed,  of  her  son's  narrative,  and  the  features 
of  the  mother  sufficiently  told  me  that  her  prayera 
had  been  heard  —  her  fondest  wishes  gratified 


323 


A  WINTER  THOUGHT. 

BY     MRS.     ABDV 

Oh  !  oft,  in  the  depth  of  a  dark  winter's  day, 
The  sun  his  bright  beams  on  the  landscape  may 
fling ; 

Soft  breezes  around  us  may  wooingly  play, 
And  senses  rejoice  in  the  softness  of  spring. 

But  the  groves  and  the  gardens  deserted  and 
drear, 

Once  gay  with  rich  foliage  and  roses  in  bloom, 
Remind  us  that  soon  must  the  charm  disappear, 

And  winter  return  in  its  winter  and  gloom. 

Thus  oft,  when  we  pass  through  the  valley  of 
years, 
Our  way  may  be  lighted  with  Fancy's  warm 
ray. 
Our  hearts  may  thrill  fondly  with  hopes  and  with 
fears. 
We  may  feel  the  glad  freshness  of  life's  dawn- 
ing day. 

But  vainly  we  seek  for  the  early-loved  race 
Of  friends  and  companions  that  brighten  the 
earth ; 


324  A    WINTER    THOUGHT 

They  are  gone;  chilling  strainers  appear  in  their 
place ; 
We  mourn  the  lone  hall  and  the  desolate  hearth . 

The  spell  has  passed  over !     Life  comes  on  our 
eyes 
In  its  chill,  wintry  aspect  of  sternness   and 
truth ; 
Alas !  we  must  reach  a  bright  home  in  the  skies, 
Ere  we  welcome  again  the  lost  spring  of  our 
youth ! 


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